Journey of the Fallen
by Oedipus Tex
Summary: COMPLETE! For some, death is the end. For others, it's the beginning. The fallen have a journey to complete, and this is a brief story of the beginning, and the end, of the journey. Auroncentric
1. Beginning of the End

Disclaimer: I do not own FFX. I may be using the characters here, but not because they are mine. If they were mine, Auron would have gotten a MOVIE for his sending, not some lame video game play. I am not making any money off this fic. Thank you for your patience.   
Journey of the Fallen 

Red blood — gathered in little pools and running in rivulets on a blank shroud of snow — attracted no fiends. Beasts born of hatred had no hate for the dying. It was the living that reaped their bitterness, because the living had what they had lost, and still desired; but those whose red life fell from them were invisible at best, contemptible at worst, for loosing what should be precious to them. So the bashura rested, and the snow wolves mutely looked on, as the bloodied guardian pulled himself down Mt. Gagazet. Dressed in crimson, seemingly dyed by the blood of fiends (as if they had any) that he had shed, and trailing the cold, biting blade that had shed that blood, he had once been an awful adversary. Now, he was just a man, crushed beneath the weight of duty, sacrifice, and love. The first time through the mount, he had made the beasts to flee before him; now, those same beasts mocked him, who had once been their destroyer.

He cursed them: duty, sacrifice, love. They had blinded Braska, even Jecht, and had led them to their fruitless, pointless ends. They had blinded him too, as they had blinded all of Spira, and now, he too would die from his blindness. Love for his crushed companions had made him turn back, against Yunalesca, and fueled his rage. With rage had come a havoc that drew the blood from him, and made it drop onto the ground on which he crawled. Love, sacrifice, duty: rage, havoc, death; these were intertwined as closely as bedfellows. One came not without the other, and it was a sad thing that Auron did not figure that out until now. But still, he went on.

Behind, the wolves, their tongues lolling, lapped up the fallen blood, as if by doing so they could gain back the lives that they had lost. And still, he went on.

The peak of Gagazet still lay ahead, where the bitter cold laid waiting for him. Yet still, he went on.

Spira had been founded on a lie, and that lie would never die. Still, he went on.

**II.**

The Ronso with the broken horn first smelled it on the air. The odor of gore was not at all unusual for Mt. Gagazet; and yet, it made him pause. It was the timing that caused him to halt, because while it was often that blood flowed on the mount — the blood of summoners and their guardians, as the many makeshift tombs bespoke — it was unusual that it should flow so soon after the beginning of a Calm. This Ronso did not have memory long enough to know such a thing, but the memory of his people was long, and that was enough. His nose told him that the blood was four days old, and the Calm had begun five days previous. Blood had no business being grounded at such a time, on this side of the mountain. That meant that it had to have come from…a guardian.

Kimarhi thought of Braska — High Summoner now — and of his two guardians. They had passed through only a week ago, and no one had come after them; after Sin was gone, there had been no need to. Yes, it definitely must be one of Braska's guardians, which was amazement in itself. No one survived Zanarkand: something about it killed all who entered there — except, apparently, for this one. A survivor of Zanarkand was unprecedented.

Kimarhi feared that it was nigh impossible when he saw the blood, and its trail up the mountain. Apparently, Zanarkand had enacted its fee, after all.

He stepped quickly, following the red dots. If it was a guardian of Braska's, he had an obligation to find the man and help him, before he died. And if already dead, then Kimarhi's burden was erect a just and right monument to the man that had helped to save Spira from Sin. That was Kimarhi's burden; that was his duty.

**III.**

Even as Auron lay in the grass, spent and dried, he thought the chant in his brain: _He must move on, he must move on, he must move on, he must move on_. It had been his heartbeat ever since Mt. Gagazet, when the desire to lay his head down and shut his eyes grew great. _He must move on, he must move on, he must move on_. It drove him forward, even when the searing in his body swallowed all other senses. _He must move on, he must move on_. He had even lost the reasons why he must move on, but he still followed its urgings, when everything else told him to stop. _He must move on_.

But he couldn't move on anymore, no matter how his heart and mind and lips told him to.

This was how Kimarhi found him: in the Calm Lands, fallen on a bed of grass, lips silently repeating the urging that had driven him forward so far. Auron's condition appalled Kimarhi, who had hoped, with the ceasing of a bloody trail, that the guardian had recovered. The ever-constant thin line in the dirt, just the thickness of a blade, had told him otherwise — but still, he had hoped. Now, it looked as though the hope had been in vain.

He tentatively turned Auron over, and looked at the wound. When he saw it, he knew that the man was dead. It was only a wonder that Auron had made it this far; a whisper of impossible life hid back in one, good eye. Obviously, however, the life was readying to leave, because there was no response when Kimarhi lifted Auron. The man still repeated his litany, but he wasn't conscious of it. His soul was cutting its bindings, readying to lift off, and had no more use for a body.

Kimarhi left Auron's sword, blade stuck down into the earth, standing the weapon upright, at the crossroads of Beville and Zanarkand. This way, all who passed would know that a great guardian had come to his end there, on the way _back_ from Zanarkand, _towards_ the holy city. It was a strange thought, and would enter legend.

That done, Kimarhi hefted Auron to his shoulder, and turned his way towards the nearest bit of civilization: an Al Behd trading post. Perhaps, there, the guardian would spend the last moments of his life in comfort and warmth. It was the least that could be done.

**IV.**

Rin stared down at Sir Auron, and was distressed. Only a few days before, the young man had been vibrant, healthy, and strong, as much determination as he was power. He, Lord Braska, and Sir Jecht had stayed at his little inn, and had left leaving the impression that if any men would defeat Sin, they would be those men. If they had seemed wearied, it had made Rin proud that they had chosen his inn to regain their strength. But now, their end had come: Lord Braska, dead; Sir Jecht, for a certainty dead; Sir Auron, dying. It was a terrible thing, especially because it was all for naught. Strong men and women, cut down for nothing. It was enough to make him sick.

Sir Auron lay in the bed, wounds dressed, sleeping fitfully. The Ronso told Rin that Auron had somehow crawled down Gagazet and through the Calm Lands in that condition. His determination to keep going was incredible — so incredible, in fact, that it wouldn't even let him rest on his deathbed. Only the refusal of his body to put forth any more effort kept him still.

Rin started a fire in the hearth. Night was coming, and nights in the Calm Lands were chilly. The winds coming from Gagazet cooled the land, keeping it pleasant during the day, but frosting it at night. Rin wondered if the Ronso would mind the fire — fur had to be warm — but a quick glance assured him that Kimarhi minded not. Immobile, expressionless, silent, the Ronso sat in front of Sir Auron's bed, staring ahead at the wall. Rin's experience with felines had him convinced that they could see things that none other could — hence the reason why they stared at walls. He supposed Ronso were no different.

Kimarhi broke the silence. "He will soon need a summoner."

Rin did not answer. He didn't understand. He knew that he should, but he did not, and was confused.

"For the Sending," Kimarhi explained. "It is the way of his people."

Of course. "Tomorrow morning, I will send someone to Beville to fetch one. I'm sure that there are summoners enough who will be glad to perform the dance for Sir Auron."

Rin had seen the Dance of the Sending once before. It had been the most beautiful, poignant thing that he had ever seen. The sweeping of the robes, the graceful arching of the summoner's instrument, and the rising of the pyreflies — bits of captured rainbow — so in concord with the silent music of the dance, that it looked choreographed. It had been beautiful. But the contrite expression of intense concentration on the summoner's face, and the weeping, had brought the true nature of the dance to light. It was Rin's wish that it would never be performed again.

But that was unlikely to be…not in Spira.

Rin worked the fire into a right old blaze, and Kimarhi's ear twitched briefly, as the only indication that he thought thoughts in his head. Perhaps he was thinking the same things as Rin.

"Sir Auron," Kimarhi repeated. Now, at least, he knew the name of one who had burned brightly, but briefly.

Rin continued feeding more wood into the fire, because he didn't know what else to do. In truth, the presence of the Ronso made him uneasy. He could find no reason for Kimarhi to remain here; the Ronso had done his duty, had he not? What else?

"Excuse me," Rin began, "but let me assure you that if you should desire to move on, it will be acceptable and understandable. I will be happy to take care of Sir Auron."

"Kimarhi will stay," Kimarhi rumbled, his tone brooking no refusal. He even crossed his arms, and became the thesis of a stern, stubborn statue. Nothing could more him. "Duty demands it."

That, Rin understood. Duty was the thing that had made him open doors and bed to a man who would likely be dead by morning anyway. Sir Auron had done his duty to Spira; now, Spira must do her duty to him. And by association, even if it were weak, to the Ronso.

"Do you require a room? I can — "

"No. Kimarhi will stay here."

"But when you want sleep — "

"Kimarhi will not sleep. Need only potions and elixirs." Kimarhi motioned towards the collection of bottles of rainbow glass, full of pure cleansing liquids, on a nearby tabletop. Washrags, to soothe Sir Auron's brow, and water, to soothe his tongue, were there as well. Apparently, that was enough.

"Would you like someone to sit with you?"

"No. Kimarhi take care of him. Alone." It seemed that the Ronso wished to be as unproblematic as possible.

"I see. In that case, I have other duties that I may attend to. But if you need anything, please be sure to ask."

Kimarhi nodded once, and continued to stare straight ahead. He stayed still, as Rin left more wood by the fireplace, cursing in Al Behd as he dropped them on his feet and dug splinters underneath his fingernails. He then took Sir Auron's things — his clothes and armor — to wash, so that he might be buried in them. When Rin finally left, shutting the door softly behind him, so as not to disturb the dying, Kimarhi still sat still — sitting in front of Auron's bed, his arms crossed, staring forward at who-knows-what.

**V.**

Auron awoke very early in the morning, when the stars still speckled the darkening sky, and the moon still lay as a measureless beacon. Kimarhi had kept the fire going strong, to keep Auron's journey to the Farplane comfortable. The dying grew cold, as their warmth left them, and often cried out for heat.

Auron still had warmth in him when he opened his eyes, because, after one brief moment of disorientation, he struggled to rise. Kimarhi was upon him, gently pushing him back. It pained Kimarhi to see how quickly and easily Auron gave under him. It would not be long now; it was stealing fast.

Auron lay, gasping weakly, and Kimarhi turned quickly towards the table. One moment late, and he was lifting the guardian gently in his arms, nudging elixir liquid past the man's lips.

"Do not move," he said. "It is no good."

Auron went to speak, but the Ronso drowned his words with potion. When they were finished, Kimarhi lay Auron back down, and again sat in his seat. His whiskers shone brilliant and white by the fire, and Auron found them distracting. They caught his attention, and held it there. Whenever the Ronso shifted, a flash of light glided down the length of each whisker, glowing bright and brighter before flashing brightest of all, and then out.

"I must get to Beville," Auron said. His voice sounded terribly weak, in his own ears, and had a strange sort of echo in it — an otherworld quality.

"Stay, rest," Kimarhi insisted.

Auron was no less insistent — the only problem was that he had no power to be forceful. He struggled, for a time, to lift himself, even if only his head, but he eventually had to quit, his resources exhausted. He barely even had energy to keep his eye open, and to speak. He spoke out of fear of what may happen if he grew still and silent.

"What is your name, Ronso?"

"Kimarhi."

Auron considered asking him what accident had laid short his horn, but it was revealed to him that that question was impudent. The Ronso were, by nature, proud; this Kimarhi had a pride about him that was born, not from his strengths, but from his weaknesses. His pride — and more likely, his sense of duty — had brought him low.

Auron's revulsion for sacrifice, love, and duty choked him mute.

They were silent for some time. The lights in Kimarhi's whiskers grew brighter still, pulsing with rapid energy. The sky grew lighter, raising the curtain of the night, and Auron's breath grew raspier. He shut his eye against the glowing of the white threads. When he opened it again, he opened to pain.

Terrible tearing, splitting. He felt lovely hands — Yunalesca's hands — reaching into him, deep into him, and out through the back of his skull. They were probing, tearing, ripping, splitting him apart. They were lovely hands, powered by the arms of Yevon, the deceiver.

Outside, the dawn came. The sun was making its approach, and spread the sky pink and glowing orange.

Blue hands were lifted him, teasing his lips with the edge of a vial. He jerked his head away. He did not have time for that. He felt it coming fast.

"Kimarhi, stop," he gasped. The lights were so bright now — brilliant and yellow, then green, now orange, and white — and they blinded him. The fingers — soft fingers — were opening him from the inside. The sky grew gray. He grasped out blindly, and a warm hand caught his hand, and held it.

"Sir Auron," a voice rumbled in his ear.

"I cannot die. I have too much to do."

"Rest."

"No!" It was suddenly hard to breath — and the lights were so bright. But he couldn't shut his eyes to them. Let them burn his sockets if may be; he would not close his eyes! "Listen…I made — I made a promise. Braska's…"

The warm hand tightened on his. "Yes? What is it?"

"Braska's daughter — Beville. I promised…"

The lights came closer, until they were all that he could see. Threads brushed against his cheeks. "What does Sir Auron need? Let Kimarhi…"

"Why?"

The answer came without hesitation. "Duty. Sir Auron do duty to Kimarhi, to Spira; now Kimarhi do duty to Sir Auron." Let Kimarhi be useful, was Kimarhi's wish. He was displaced.

Fingers spread Auron wide, nails brushing soft tissue. He thought he would scream. "Duty, yes, duty." A humorless smile; panting.

"What does Sir Auron need?"

"Braska's daughter — Yuna…in Beville. He made me promise, before…to take her to Besaid."

"Besaid?"

"Yes, Besaid. A small island…peaceful. I must take her there, before I die."

"Kimarhi take Yuna to island, to Besaid. Rest, now." Kimarhi felt Auron loosening in his arms, the hand relaxing beneath his fingers. The light was dimming in his eye. "Rest, Sir Auron. Kimarhi take care."

"Thank you…Kimarhi." The body grew cold. The lights had finally gone. The eye, glassy in pain, finally closed.

It flicked open again, an instant later, a brown marble rolling in white and red. "Jecht!" he cried. "I forgot — Wait!"

He died before he could explain what or whom should wait. One long exhale, and all was gone.

The sun rose.

Kimarhi did not move. He listened to the sound of the fire crackling in the hearth; it reminded him of the Ronso story of life. Of how the soul was a burning fire, and it took all the strength of the body to contain it. It explained why, when a person was ill, their body weakened, that it burned; and it explained why the dying body, when the soul was leaving it, grew cold: the heat was leaving. When the body was weak enough, the fire of the soul consumed it, and up went pyreflies — licks of fire — leaving no remnant behind. Kimarhi thought that Auron's body would burn the hottest.

He remembered the promise that he had made. He dropped Auron's hand, and reached out to gently shut the sightless eye closed. It had remained open, when the man had made his last entreaty. Kimarhi brushed the lid with his thumb, and considered the face of the corpse. Auron did not look peacefully asleep, nor younger. He looked anticipatory and stubborn, even in death.

Kimarhi rose quickly, turning his sight away. There was something foreboding in the face, and he feared for the owner. He blood was chilled for the first time that night; he was glad for the fire.

He hastened to leave, and so ran into Rin, who stood outside the door.

"Ah, pardon me," came Rin's over polite voice. His Al Behd gesture of beg for forgiveness was the obsequious that Kimarhi wondered why the man didn't just prostrate himself on the ground outright.

He was impatient, and attempted to pass; Rin caught him on the shoulder.

"Leaving?"

"Yes."

Rin stretched his face in two directions: the bottom went down, with his jaw; the top went up, with the brows. "Why?"

"Kimarhi must attend to other duties."

"Then you mean — "

"No need to any longer attend Sir Auron."

Rin bowed his head, dropping his hand from Kimarhi's arm. "I see. I must thank you kindly for — "

"No. Kimarhi thank Rin for giving Kimarhi and Sir Auron refuge."

"It was necessary."

"Yes."

In that moment, an understanding passed between the Ronso — creature from the snows of mountains — and the Al Behd — creature from the sands of deserts. It was the unifying principle of Spira that caused its peoples to cling together, when they had the foresight to do so: duty, sacrifice, love…and death.

Giving each other Godspeed, the pair separated. Rin went to enter the death chamber, to lay down the burial clothes; red spilling over his arms and down near his feet. Kimarhi headed towards Beville, what he had seen in the face of Sir Auron's death mask hastening him on his way.

**AN: What does it mean when a character doesn't become really interesting until he's dead? I don't more. But there's more to come, so don't go away!**


	2. Beville, Part One

_A/N: Okay, next chapter. Thanks, Spira's Bard. It's because of you, man, that this fic has grown! It was originally supposed to be shorter; it's amazing what one little review will do._   
Journey of the Fallen, Part Two: Beville, Part One 

**VI.**

Inhale. Even several hours after the fact, the long inhale still left Auron on the edge. Rhythmic twitches disrupting the pieces of his body, he felt anxious to move; there was an ever-pressing call for motion, pressing harder and deeper every false breath he took. He knew that he could walk for hours, days, years, in such a condition, not knowing exhaustion. Yet, he knew it wasn't a physical need for motion; it was a spiritual need, to find the place where he belonged, and not rest until he found it. It was because he no longer truly belonged to Spira now: he was a citizen of the Farplane, now, even if an exiled one. Even if it was a self-imposed exile.

Rin paled when he saw Auron walk out of the room, fully dressed, steady-footed, and able-bodied. The guardian would have looked just as he had come before: lack of weapon, bandaged face, and odd, drained expression told the reality.

"Sir!" Rin gasped. "Out of bed already? You must rest — your wounds — "

"Are fine," Auron replied.

"But — "

"You said it yourself, did you not? I made a recovery."

Rin's brow furrowed in confusion. It was true; this had been the first thing he had said, when walking into Auron's room and finding the man awake, when he had been expecting dead: "Oh, excuse me. The Ronso told me you didn't need an attendant anymore, and I took him to mean… I see, he meant that you had recovered." Sir Auron had given him a strange look then, and Rin took it to mean that he should shut up. He had been told that he tended to speak liberally, and that it was a flaw.

Auron headed towards the front door, cloak flying out behind him as a red shadow. He stopped before he left, and faced Rin. "The Ronso…did he say where he left for?"

"To Beville, I believe."

A slight, barely perceptible, smile bit Auron's mouth. "Did he bring in a sword?"

"No, no sword. A lance, but no sword."

"Hm." With that, Auron opened the door and left the travel agency. Later, it would occur to him that he had never thanked the Al Behd for his hospitality — it had been free, even — but just then, he was too disconnected to give it any thought. He stared out at the green ocean of grass, the hills rising as waves, crested with the bloom of yellow flowers. Sun-dappled lowlands, they had before been bright and dazzling. Now, for some reason, they seemed veiled, not quite real, as the Moonflow seems on a foggy morning. He didn't belong to this world anymore — it was no longer his, and the Calm that he had helped to bring was meant for other people.

And yet, he needed his sword, for he still had many things to do. His promise to Braska fulfilled — he would have to check up on that, to be sure — there was still his promise to Jecht, although he had no worldly (Farplaney?) idea on how to do so. And then, there was Beville. He would take the truth to them. Auron fully intended to destroy the false god Yevon.

But first, there was the matter of the sword.

**VII.**

It took Auron many hours to track down his weapon. An imperfect memory of where he had been was no help, but he eventually found it, at the crossroads where the road to Beville met the road to Zanarkand. It was appropriate. The road to Beville lead to a place teeming with life and lies, the largest city on the planet, from where those lies spread out to the rest of Spira; the road to Zanarkand…that one led to death, and truth.

Slinging the sword over his shoulder, Auron headed towards Beville, the city of lies. He wasn't sure how they would react to him — a rare returned guardian — especially when he told them what he knew. His fist tightened on the hilt: and so he would return to Beville, an impossible guardian returned from Zanarkand.

**VIII.**

The maesters were not caught off guard when they were told that Sir Auron, guardian to High Summoner Lord Braska, was at their gates, begging an audience. Word had come to them long before that something mythical and appalling had happened: Sir Auron had come back. It hadn't happened many times before — there had only been Sir Hing of Lord Arror, Mistress Lipp of Lord Kier, and Sir Ostios of Lady Asson — and it took them a moment to remark.

"In what manner is his return?" was the first question.

The docent looked momentarily confused, but he covered it with an obsequious bow. "By foot, Maesters."

"Under his own power?"

"Yes."

"In what condition is he?"

"He seems well, although a bandage does cover the right side of his face."

"Is he coming here?"

"Yes, Maester."

They dismissed the docent, and earnestly conversed with each other in secret. This was only the second time a guardian had returned in good condition. Sir Hing had been driven mad, and came back to their city, raving; Sir Ostios had just barely crawled to the gates, and lived only a few silent days in a bed, before expiring; Mistress Lipp had come back able-bodied, mind intact…she, however, died from an encounter with a fiend on the road, a few weeks later. What a…tragedy that had been.

When Sir Auron came, they were ready, and called him forward. Ten of the highest (excluding the highest, which was away) sat before him in a great chamber, chairs facing him, at the peak of the greatest tower in Beville. Let it not be said that the maesters were modest: the money that came their way, as leaders of the prevailing religion, built them magnificent towers and glorious temples, clothed them in fine garments, fed them the best that Spira could offer, and decorated them with the jewelry of kings. This was how the people knew the all-encompassing power, and supposed majesty, of their religion. It was mere vanity, Auron thought.

"Praise be!" Maestress Yet cried, once Sir Auron had, in coming before them, lowered himself onto one knee, as was custom. "We are delighted that you have come back to us!" She swept her arm out to him, the jewelry on her wrists clacking against each other, making metallic music.

The Maesters simultaneously — so smoothly they had surely practiced it together — enacted the prayer. Arms out: the wings of Yevon; the cupping of the hands: the eye of Yevon; the low bow: the tail of Yevon. Every movement spelled Yevon's existence, thanked him, and reminded them of his power. The wings illustrated the reach of Yevon, of his influence on everything and everybody; the eye showed that Yevon could see all things; and the tail demonstrated the movement of Yevon, of his ability to be every where. How little they understood that it was a farce.

Sir Auron did not perform the prayer. "Thank you," he murmured, bowing his head a beat. "It is…good to be back." Oh, how little they understood the full meaning of his words.

"What tidings bring you from Zanarkand?" Maester Mika asked. "What brings you to Beville?"

"I have come to…" He paused, and considered the men before him. He had come to shake their foundation, lay waste on the thing on which their world rested; but now, looking at them, Auron knew. He knew that no amount of speech would cause them to heed their ears, to hear his words. They were too stubborn, too devoted to the shining of the false religion, with its plaster doctrine and sham deity, to consider his message for even a moment. "I have come to pay my respects," he finished.

"And we thank you for it. Tell me, Sir Auron, where will you go after this?"

"I have not decided yet."

"Then let me extend a welcome to you, and ask you to stay here. Unfortunately, you have arrived too late for the celebrations, but you can still provide a wonderful opportunity for us. You have a first hand account of a high summoner's journey: perhaps, you can be our guest, and tell us of your journey. You can tell us of Zanarkand, and of what you found there."

Auron bit back a smirk. Oh no, they would not find out just yet. But, staying in Beville, in the seat of Yevon, had its benefits. "I thank you for your hospitality, and accept."

Maester Aver, silent until now, his eyes burning into Auron's form, spoke. "We, unfortunately, can offer you only one room. All others are filled with other honored guests, come for the celebration of the Calm. If you will see the docent outside the doors, he will show you to your room."

Auron bowed his head, but before leaving, he faced Maester Aver. To speak would be uncomfortable; to not speak would be humiliating. "Maester Aver, let me extend my congratulations to you. When I last passed through here, you were still only a priest."

A false smile covered the bitter expression in Aver's eyes. "And let me extend to you my congratulations, for having…regained your honor. You have been shot high, to the stars…" He let the rest of his statement remain silent, although it was obvious: "…where before, you were low, in the mire and muck."

Auron bowed his head again, and left. The Maesters watched him leave, with questions in their brains, and secret wishes in their hearts. They would wait and see, before deciding what they should do about the Legendary Guardian Sir Auron.

**IX.**

The blade of a sword could make for a useful mirror, especially when one was as skilled with using one as Sir Auron. Using a real mirror was, of course, more practical, but he wasn't sure if he was ready for that. No, a blade made it easier for him to see what Yunalesca had done to him, because it seemed further away, that way.

He wasn't certain how he felt about his injury. Certainly, the lose of an eye was annoying — it would make him less effective in battle, until he learned to compensate — but he wasn't sure that he even felt anything about the scar that had completely changed one side of his face. He was still detached from this world. He had only grunted when the healer, in fear of his wrath, had told him that there was only so much that could be done. There was no point in getting angry, for the healer had done all that he could, and the deed was done, and there was nothing further. And yet, it frightened him to look in a mirror, and see the full picture for himself.

He put the sword down and stood up. Auron walked to the window of the comfortable room that they had given him, and he stared down at Beville. His room was high up in a tall building, and gave him excellent view. Beville: city of color and life. The streets still swarmed with the masses that had flocked there with the arrival of the Calm. Hints of joyful music drifted from every marketplace. Even many Al Behd were on the corners and in the shops…Spira could afford to be magnanimous, in the few weeks following the Calm. That would change soon, though, once the initial elation wore off. People would soon remember what had caused the harvest by Sin, and would, even if falsely, again turn against those who supposedly still so arrogantly used what had caused it. Auron remembered that much from the last Calm, many years ago.

He grunted once, in humor, when he saw the tall building in which the Maesters cloistered themselves. It had been embarrassing to see Aver there, but he could not resist speaking to the man. The maester had stared at him with cold hate in his eyes, interspersed with arrogant victory, as if he wasn't sure of what he was feeling. It was strange to be regarded thus by a man who had once wanted him for a son-in-law.

A knock came at the door, and Auron begged the person outside entrance. He hoped it was the docent with news of Yuna. It was not the docent; instead, it was a woman Auron had hoped to never see again. By the look on her face, she obviously had felt the same about him.

They stared stupidly at each other for a few moments, as they would have regarding a snake, afraid, terrorfied to approach, more so to move away.

The world was suddenly becoming so very real to Auron, as he felt anger rise in his belly, and red blood rise in his face. It made him speak first. "Hello, Rysho. What brings you here?"

She spoke through white lips, her eyes hard set, like jewels, and her tone biting. "I came to see for myself. I was certain you were dead, but then they said you were here."

She walked in closer. The light moved up her form, and settled on her face, glowing white. She used to turn her face towards him in admiration, her green eyes shining in pleasure, mouth softened, and joy in every feature. Now, her mouth was straight and rough, and her eyes dulled in bitter hate. It would have made the old Auron sad to look at her, for he was the cause of her change. The new, deceased, Auron knew that it was necessary.

"They are calling you legendary guardian."

Auron scratched his chin, and winced slightly, to brush against his wound. "The masses work quickly. I've only been here one day."

"Guardians seldom return — but no one needs to tell you of your greatness, you know it already. You were always arrogant, Sir Auron." His title was said mockingly, and she even bowed before him, an exaggerated motion. Her face was flushed when she arose. "Perhaps you heard: I'm married now."

"I heard."

"Yes, a great many changes have happened since you've gone…changes for the better. You changed too, Sir Auron." She spoke it, meaning to be cruel, as she pretended to be interested in the lay of her gown. She was a mess of veils and sheer layers, folded into complicated forms; one had to be concerned that they lay correctly. She blinked innocently at him. "You look differently somehow. I cannot put my finger on it, but you look…older, maybe."

"I could say the same about you. You look more…grown-up."

She pretended to pass over his remark as though it didn't bother her. "Or maybe you just seem more tired. I'm sure the journey was very difficult for you — "

"Rysho, why have you come here?"

"I am sort of the welcoming committee, you see, for our honored guests. So you see, we are to see much of each other during your stay here."

He was an immoveable force. Only a statue, bowing his head at her news, when he should have blinked or paled in discomfort — she couldn't take it. He was too unfeeling, too cruel. She turned to retreat.

But the question came unbidden to her lips. "Did you refuse to marry me because you meant to go on this pilgrimage?"

It was true…he was too unfeeling — too honest — to lie to her. "No." What could have been could not have been, priest's daughter.

She turned on her heels and stamped her foot in anger. She had not grown out of that. "I am pleased, Sir Auron. I am very pleased you did not marry me. I could have never stood a deformed husband!"

She did not flee. No, she walked to the door, deliberately slow, her head and back straight, like a sword blade. She bowed her head in farewell, controlled; but her black lashes fluttered against her cheeks like bird feathers in flight, and her hand trembled on the door.

She left, and closed the door. Auron sat, facing the window, where the lights of Beville hid the stars from view. Those lights, striking in through the window, and landing on his mouth, revealed a smile.

To be continued… 


	3. Beville, Part Two

AN: Thanks Luv2Game. When I read your review, it was late at night, and I was half asleep. After I read it, I was very fully awake, and dancing a jig! And then I became a furious writer, and only Harry Potter has distracted me since! Here are the fruits of your labors.   
Journey of the Fallen: Beville, Part Two 

**X.**

Deep within the Maester's Tower, in a little room, someone had turned on an overhead lamp. It flickered, because the connections were beginning to fail, but that was of little concern. Its mechanized light cut the dark enough, enough to serve the purposes of a secret meeting between Maesters.

"We cannot take any chances. We should immediately take care of the threat before it become too late."

"We mustn't be hasty, Yet. We do not yet know what he knows."

"He knows enough! I cannot believe that he is one of those cowards to have deserted their summoner before that same summoner defeated Sin, to come back and claim to have made it all the way. If he made it as far as Zanarkand — which we know he did — then he already knows too much."

Mika roused himself, patience worn thin by young, foolish Maesters. Yet and Aver still had a long way to go. "The question is not what he knows, but rather, what will he do with the knowledge. He may keep silent, because he realizes the wisdom of silence. He may understand that to speak would be to destroy the only hope Spira has."

Yet scowled. "On the other hand — "

"It is too soon to say, just yet. We mustn't be hasty in our movements."

"Why take the chance? Take care of the problem before it becomes a problem. Remember the wisdom of the old Maesters: Five hundred years ago Mistress Lipp returned from Zanarkand — and died on the road by a fiend."

The Maesters looked sideways at each other, for they suspected that it hadn't been a fiend at all that had gotten Mistress Lipp.

Aver leapt up, and rammed his head against the lamp. Shadows flickered back and forth, Mika's expressionless face in shade, and then in light again. Aver reached up and stopped the lamp's crazy dance, his face shining red in humiliation and rage. His pale green eyes looked yellow in the dim light.

"Do not be a fool Yet. We cannot just get rid of the problem and not face the consequences of our actions. Sir Auron is one of the few guardians to have ever returned from Zanarkand alive. He's a hero to the people, now only second to High Summoner Lord Braska. The loss of his eye only makes him more impressive. To loose him now, to an 'accident', would shock the people. It would add a sour note to their victory, and we mustn't let that happen. Not without good cause."

A smug smile twisted Yet's handsome face, and her eyes glittered in her head, malevolent orbs. "I wonder…" She rubbed her chin thoughtfully; it was an exaggerated expression for Yet was, at heart, an actress. "I wonder, Aver, if your old feelings for Sir Auron are not rekindled. You hesitate to harm him."

"Do no be a fool! Any affection I had for him died when he spat upon the offer I made him — an offer that would have elevated him to heights beyond his expectations. I took my vengeance out on him for what he did, and I would do it again and again." If there had been any doubt of Aver's disgust, that doubt would have died at the hearing of his tone. "I have already explained my reasons why I feel the way I do, do not — "

"As Maesters of Yevon," Mika interposed, "it is our burden to give hope to the people, even if one must lie to do so. Stop this futile bickering: it can lead us no further. Let us wait, awhile, and see what must be done. We will question him, and learn what he knows."

Aver remained standing, the remnants of his earlier emotion still striking him strong. "As long as he is under the eye of Yevon, we cannot fear him."

"And if he should decide to leave?" asked Yet.

No one answered. Aver looked unpleased.

"Aver, before you go," spoke Mika. He fingered his long beard absentmindedly, his eyes lowered in confident serenity. "Tell your daughter not to deny the legendary guardian anything. If he asks for scrolls, let her bring to him the entire library, if he wants it. Do not hide any information from him, do not hinder his movements. But keep track of every movement he makes, every question he asks, every line he reads. Let him dig his own grave."

Aver bowed respectfully, as a secret wormed itself into his heart. "I see, Maester. I will tell her, right away."

The flickered lamp went out, and the shadows drew in.

**XI.**

There was something about a summoner that Auron found attractive now. Everywhere he went — not that he went many places in Beville — there was a summoner, and Auron found himself staring at them, barely resisting the impulse to wander up to them and ask the Question. Thoughts on it were a source of amusement. Imagine a summoner, minding his own business, suddenly accosted by a desperate character: "Please Send me to the Farplane." Sometimes, it wasn't funny, when the yearning for the Farplane became almost too great. He could not give in yet, however; he still had too much to do.

The hollow knocking of scrolls falling against tabletop broke into his thoughts. Auron blinked, and scanned upward, until meeting Rysho's earthy eyes. He sat seated, at a table in the library, scrolls lying open before him. She had been getting more for him.

The library in Beville was the most famed library in the world, regarded for its massive number of texts — some declared that they had one of everything ever written — and for its beautiful decor. Black marble floors shined so that you could look into them, and see the floors above in the reflection; chairs and tables built of the choicest woods — oak, cherry, maple — and a floor for each type of reading genre. First floor was literature and poetry, second was music and history, third was science and math, and so on and so forth. There was always a lamp to read by, a seat to take comfort in, and the caretakers kept the place smelling sweet, with incense: myrrh, jasmine, musk, and hundreds of others. All of Spira flocked to see this wonder, although very few stayed to actually peruse its manuscripts.

Apparently, Rysho understood these sort of people, and not the sort who would choose to read. It was strange, because she had the sanction to bring out the documents for the readers, but she did not read herself. "You know," she said, sitting down in a chair across the table, "some people, after returning from a pilgrimage, would take a vacation. Relax a little, you know. Enjoy the fact that they're still alive."

It would have been inappropriate to laugh, especially if it was a bitter laugh, so Auron did not. He gathered the scrolls to himself.

Rysho sighed. "I suppose, this _is_ like a vacation to you. Two weeks in the library, not out in some God-forsaken no-man's land, dodging creatures. Reading, here, in the peace and quiet, no fiends to worry over. The fiends should be less now…until…" She bit her lips, hiding her face away, as though she was on the point of saying something sacrilegious. How wonderful it would be, Auron thought, if he could assure her that Sin was never coming back. But that would be a lie, and the world was full enough of lies.

And the next time Sin came back, it would be Jecht.

Auron turned his attention back to a scroll, as a subtle way of telling Rysho that he wished to be left alone. She, however, had other ideas.

"Look at how they all look at you — at us," she said. She spoke of the other people of the room, whose eyes often turned towards them in interest. "They know that we were once supposed to be married. 'Look,' they say, 'at the girl who brought Auron low!' But you have raised yourself up again, even higher than before, without my aid." She caught his eye, and stared at him seriously. She opened her sweet, honey lips, and poison came out. "And for that, Sir Auron, I will always hate you."

He did not reply at first; what could he say? The words came to him, however. "You play the injured party."

"I _am_ the injured party! As a priest's daughter…what you did…"

He smirked. "You were not the one cast out — unless, you mean to say that you had love for me, so that when my rejection came, it broke your heart."

The idea amused her. "Of course not. Love — ha!"

"We used to be friends."

"Ah, but that was before you humiliated me. Do you realize that I am the only priest's daughter to have suffered such a humiliation in ten years? I will be plain with you: I did not want you, but that did not mean that you should have refused my father."

The unsteady, dangerous ground, full of pitfalls, of politics: Auron had no patience for it. "Rysho, why do we continue this conversation?"

As they spoke, his voice grew lower, but hers grew louder. It was clear to the other people that they were having an argument.

She stood abruptly from the table, shooting the chair back. It legs screamed across the black marble floor. She stood above him, eyes ablaze, hair flowing out, and face white: she was some sort of avenging angel. "I wish that you had died! Then I wouldn't be tormented so." She left, her manner stiff and hurried.

The people quickly turned their gazes away, when Auron glanced up. He sighed, and went back to perusing the scrolls. How he wished that he had remained dead, too; then, he could have some rest.

**XII.**

Because Rysho was part of the official welcoming committee, and because her husband was an important man, and because her father was even more important, she had easy access to the keys of the bedroom suites in the towers. She could walk into the room where the keys were hung, each on its own hook, for each room, and take a key. No one would question her, and no one would dare raise any suspicions. Of course, the fact that she was doing such a thing in the middle of the night, when all decent people were in bed, made it even easier for her. So she took the key boldly, and took the long march up the tower, not a fear in her heart. The darkness hid her, veiling her actions. And concealment was required for what she was doing.

Fear came to her, however, when she stood outside the door that the key belonged to. She wasn't certain — how would she be received — she had fought with him only that day — what would he think — would he be angry? The thoughts assaulted her without mercy, until she barely knew what she thought.

She shut her eyes, and took a breath. She reminded herself of her duty, and with fingers that did not tremble, she unlocked the door.

He was asleep. It was dark, almost like pitch, with only the warm glow of the pious city entering in through the window. She crept in, shutting the door silently, and making her way towards the bedroom. She paused on the threshold, staring at the bed. He wasn't in it. Where then —

A hand wrapped around her mouth, to keep her from screaming. In the silence of Beville at night, any sound would cut the air. A voice: "Rysho."

She flung his arm off her, and whirled around. How he had crept behind her, she didn't know. It didn't matter. "Auron!"

"What are you doing here?"

"Believe me, it isn't for some romantic tryst."

"I thought not, after what happened earlier."

Her eyes flashed, even in the dark, like green marbles on fire. She held her head smugly, and shook it so her hair swept out; she looked like a proud colt. Rysho had always reminded of that, in earlier times, when she had been more careless, stepping lightly and tossing her head about, confident that the world around her wished her no harm, and she, in turn, wishing it no harm. "Oh that! Ha ha! I am very clever. That was only to fool witnesses. I didn't want anyone suspecting. Was it not cunning of me? No! Do not light a candle. This is a secret meeting, can't you see?"

Auron looked at her in amusement. This was more like her old self.

"I have come by the bidding of my father. Men and women mean to move against you, Auron."

"Why?"

"They fear what you know. You have been foolish in your choice of reading material. They fear that you may attempt to reveal the great concealment. They cannot allow that."

Auron snagged her elbow. "Rysho!"

She smiled, her teeth glowing white in the dark. She was a sly imp. "Yes, Auron, I do know. I know of the lies of Yevon. They took my father into confidence, when he became a maester. And I know everything that my father knows. We have always stuck together, that way."

His hand tightened on her wrist, until her eyes grew wide. He growled in anger. "You know — you all know already!"

"Of course! Do you honestly think that we are as stupid as that? Do you think that the truth wouldn't have been revealed at some point, over the last thousand years?"

"Yet you continue the lies — "

"Yes, Auron. I thought that you understood — my father thought that you understood. You never said anything. When they questioned you, you never said anything to them showing them that you meant to reveal all. You've been here two weeks now, and not an indication — "

"I didn't want them to know, just yet, what I know."

"Ah! You do understand, don't you?"

He dropped her wrist, turning away. He walked one end of the room to the other, suddenly anxious to move. His old desperation for movement was coming back to him, in full force. He could not still. "I haven't said anything about it yet because…I hoped to gain some sort of proof, before I presented the truth to the maesters. But they already know!"

"Only some. I only know, with a certainty, that my father and Yet know; I don't know who else. I don't even know if anyone else _does_ know. This isn't something that everyone should know, Auron."

He swung towards her. "And why not? Why should every one continue believing the lie?"

Her face grew austere, lids coming down low. "Auron, do you know how to finish it? Do you know how to get rid of Sin once and for all? If you do, please tell us, and we will do what we can."

"It is false hope, Rysho!" he shouted. She put a hand over his lips, to shush him. He slapped her hand away. "Braska — Jecht — dead for no reason!" His grief for them threatened to overwhelm him, and he couldn't think about them longer. It was too much. "Sin will come back again, to wreck his havoc. And again, the endless cycle, more people will die — and for what reason?" He hid his face in his hands, turning away from her, trembling. He breathed raggedly in between his fingers, and almost began laughing. He was already dead; what need had he for breath?

She spoke to him again, but softly. "They did not die in vain, Auron. They sacrificed their lives so that the people of Spira may live in peace, if even for a short time."

His old hatred of sacrifice, love, duty came to him. "Sacrifice!" he spat. "What good was it?"

"They did it for love, did they not? For love of Spira. They have given her her short rest."

He could not deny it, and remained silent. His hands fell, and he looked towards the window, at the city glow. All of Spira was waiting for the breath of relief, and… Braska had brought it to them, if even for a short time, hadn't he? As had Jecht. And they had done it for love. But what good did it truly do for anybody? The terror would start again.

"But why shouldn't the people know the truth? Tell me that," he asked.

"Because people cannot live without hope, Auron. Without hope, people are nothing better than animals. They will become like fiends, full of hatred and bitterness, striking out at those who have what they don't, because they know that they have no other options. No longer will people attempt to maintain a good life, full of sacrifice and love for others, no desire to do duty, because these things will not help them. Without hope, they will suffer."

"But what of the Al Behd? They suffer, needlessly. They are not infidels."

She shook her head sadly. "No, they are not. They merely do not believe the lie… but you must understand their arrogance, Auron. Can you deny the folly of machina? Were not machina used to inflict pain on fellow creatures? Machina were used for wars and no good came of them. We cannot return to such a thing; we have enough problems in this world. I regret the treatment of the Al Behd, but I regret, more, their arrogance."

Auron couldn't. But he saw her point, even if he didn't agree with it. Machina were not the cause for — he stopped. No matter how much the disgust in his belly sickened him, he saw that he could not help. If he went forward, he would be touted as a crazy man, driven insane by death, and Sin's toxin. Sir Hing…they had claimed that Sir Hing had been driven mad, but perhaps he hadn't. Perhaps he had only seen the truth, and had attempted to bring it to light; and so, he had been denounced as insane, to continue the great concealment.

It seemed to Auron that Yevon had a toxin that was much more pervasive than Sin's. But that much was obvious. Who, after all, had given birth to Sin?

"You see now, Auron?"

"Yes." It sickened him to say it, but he was helpless to say otherwise. _He_ was helpless. What could he do?

"Will you try to bring out the truth?"

"No." Not as it was. He could not afford to be foolish, when he had other obligations.

"Good. But you are feared, Auron. We fear for you. I came to tell you that you should leave, before they make their move against you. I will not allow them to harm you."

A brief expression of defiance came to Auron. They _could not_ hurt him. The damage was already done; he had not a life to be taken away — except…if they learned that he was an Unsent, then they could get rid of him after all. A summoner's dance was a threat.

He was powerless here. If they wanted him gone, then so be it. He turned and faced her, and smiled. "It makes sense to me now why they put me here. They didn't want me to read the texts, they wanted me just to stay silent…they hoped that in encountering you, I would flee, and so would not do what I have done."

She smiled back at him, and laughed. "Yes. They do not understand your stubborn streak, and the strength of it. My father should have remembered, but he does not. I…I hope that you do not think ill of him, Auron, or of me. You have every right to…but we have no wish to see you come to harm."

"No. No, I understand." He did understand: they had merely wanted to punish him for his conceit; they did not want his life. Perhaps, the friendly feelings were still there enough, to make a difference. They certainly could never return to the way they had been — both considered the other as having harmed them — but that did not mean they had to be fierce enemies.

Rysho smiled at him again, before her expression became something more concerned. "But will you leave?"

"Yes, I will leave." He nodded at her. Yes, he would leave. He knew finally where he would go; he had made a promise, and it was time that he fulfilled it. His other promise done — he had confirmed, a while ago, that the Ronso Kimarhi had taken Yuna to Besaid — he would finish Jecht's.

On Mt. Gagazet, there was a fountain that flowed up into the sky, filled with dreams like raindrops. Jecht had only been a dream, but that had meant that he could pass between the worlds. Auron was…no longer of this world; surely, he could pass between the two as well, and if the upwards waterfall was where the dreams lived, then there he would go.

Perhaps there, the haunting, beckoning song of the Farplane would not be so distinct.

**AN: Next time, Auron makes the journey to Zanarkand, and it's not exactly a total bore. It's about time Auron got his butt in gear. Next chapter should be up pretty quick. Catch you then.**


	4. Long Road to Zanarkand, Part One

**Disclaimer: **I do not own FFX. Other people do. I am making no money off this venture.

**AN:** I eat reviews and spit out fiction. You guys are going to spoil me, but that is okay. I was neglected as a child ;-P

_Journey of the Fallen: The Long Road to Zanarkand, Part One_

**XIII.**

He left when the sun was high, when the marketplaces were full, when his departure would be noticed. Rysho would have had him sneak out in the night, when the city slept, but it was a thoughtless suggestion. If he did so, then it would appear that he was hiding something, which he was, and feared them, which he did. No, he could be as deceiving as they, and his leaving would appear a mere desire to move on. Soon, he would be out from under their eye, and in places where their hand could not reach.

He even went to the Maester's Tower, to bid them farewell. The last time he had been in their presence, they had seemed like holy men to him, innocent, and beguiled by the lies of Yevon. He didn't see them that way now. Black clouds seem to hang over the faces of Aver and Yet, and on everyone else he looked with suspicion. Who knew, and who did not? It was impossible to tell.

"And where do you mean to go?" Yet asked, a fresh smile on soft lips. She looked a little too interested, in Auron's opinion. The other maesters looked at her with some irritation; she was the lone wolf, was she?

He bowed his head. "Guadosalam, first, and after…Kilika has always appealed to me."

She raised her head, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly. "You mean to retrace your pilgrimage, then?"

He bowed his head again, as his reply. Let them to take that to mean whatever they wished.

Maester Mika rose from his seat, smiling kindly. "Remember, Sir Auron, that you will always be welcome here. We bid you God-speed, and may your destination be sweet to you."

The Maesters all rose then, and performed their prayer. Auron bowed, and left when it was proper. Yes, let his destination be sweet to him. Last time, Zanarkand had been bitter instead.

And that was his manner of leaving. He walked, then, through the streets of Beville, and was conspicuous. He was like a myth come to life, with his sword on his shoulder, readying the return to the mists of time that he had emerged from. The people glanced his way, stopping what they were doing ever so shortly, to see him. They whispered to each other, and a gentleman on vacation, recording his tour, caught him on the sphere. The children looked at him with a mixture of awe and fear, as befitted a Legendary Guardian. The Al Behd perhaps looked at him less as a hero, and more like a man, but it fitted him; they understood better than most of the people of Spira.

In a high tower, behind Auron, stood Rysho on a balcony, watching him go. It was easy to keep track of him as he went through the streets: he was a lot of red, and the people parted before him, hesitant to act as an obstacle to a hero. She wished him well, even though she still could not forgive him.

In a higher tower, another woman watched his departure, but her wish was much different than Rysho's. Aver would not understand what she would do — he was soft — but Maester Mika would. He was logical, and would see the prudence of her actions. Yet smiled to think of the wisdom of the old maesters. She would follow in their footsteps.

He left out of the gate opposite the gate he had entered. This was the Macalania Gate, while the other had been the Calm Lands Gate. He would take the long road to Zanarkand, by way of the crystal woods of Macalania, and then on through the unaccustomed pass. No one was to know his true destination. It was his wish to disappear from Spira, and if he could not do it the way he needed, then this way would do as well.

**XIV. **

There was anything unlike the woods of Macalania; no other coppice had the ability to rival it in beauty and danger. Great ferns, dewy leaved, held their fronds out over ruts and holes, so that people walked into them without knowing they lay there. Heather lifted its arms, blushing shyly, next to white twinflowers, which hung their heads in turn; poisonous red-capped fungus hide underneath these flowers, and venomed anything that dared to meet it. Stark white egrets roosted in boughs of trees, their feathers hanging around them like skirts; beneath them hung throngs of monarch butterflies, flashing their orange ostentatiously. It was a sight to behold, but all who entered, entered to only pass through.

There were many stories about Macalania, most of them detailing the supernatural; children all over Spira frightened themselves with telling stories of groups getting irreparably lost within the imbroglio of woods, to never return to the light of day. Their doom was never met by the claws of fiends; no, their enemies were otherworldly creatures, Unsent, who wished to harm, who too had lost their way within the sylvan labyrinth.

These ghost stories were, of course, untrue, although not unfounded. The density of the sparkling forest kept it dark during the day, sapping all the light until it was uncertain whether it was day or night, and only the glimmer from the thickets of crystals gave light enough to walk by. At night, however, even the crystal light couldn't cut the black, and it was necessary for all travelers to stop. If they continued on, then it was indeed likely that they would lose themselves within the confusing conglomeration of old trees, fallen logs, dense thickets, and narrow road. Warrior monks patrolled the woods, but no one was still brave enough to take that chance.

Not even Legendary Guardians, who could not die again, would take that chance. When night fell, and the moon shone weakly through a sliver of opening in the canopy, Auron decided to stop. He chose a copse of trees, bushes beneath them like their children, within which a small clearing had been made by some man before him, and there lit a fire. There was always fuel enough for a fire, and Auron got it into a good blaze before he was satisfied. Even he got chilly, and nights in Macalania were cold; his breath made little white clouds that lived short, but showed that even he had heat still left in him. He didn't see how that worked, but there it was.

The wavering of the fire flickered the shadows back and forth, left to right, creating and destroying a new shade with every lick thrown up. There were, however, shadows that did not flicker.

He settled himself for a sleep that could give him no rest. He lay close to the fire, and when he closed his eyes, he could still see, even through lids, the glow. The eerie, mournful cry of the night bird — "Ahhh-lass! Ahhh-lass!" it cried, in woe for the world — and the chatter of crickets were his lullaby. He adjusted once, to make a softer pillow, and then was still.

A weight fell upon him. He came to life; he had been ready for it. He whirled underneath the weight, but its surprise was only momentary; now, it was desperate. A glint from the fire glow — a clang as it disappeared, and flew across the grove. It tolled against a tree somewhere. There were hands upon him now, rash and grasping, reaching for another weapon. Auron took the weight, and threw it off him. The radiance from the blaze dimmed, and then became all the brighter — it had more to feast upon now. Screaming — smell of burning. Normally, Macalania smelled of dew and juniper — it was covered by the fragrance of seared flesh and charred cloth.

Auron rolled, and took up his sword; he was on his feet. The figure — the assassin — in seeing him, and it, scrambled. He limped from his burns, and made an easy trail to follow in his haste. Branches broke underneath his clumsy feet, and were a clue to his whereabouts; but Auron chased him not. He had no need to shed blood: he would soon be gone from this place anyway, and it was not the assassins that alarmed him. No, it was the summoners that he had to watch for. But the assassins still must not find him, because in knowing his true state of being, they could fetch the summoner.

He searched the trees and bushes until a glint caught his eye. He divided the thicket of dry, dead branches with his hands, and came up with the short sword that had been meant to cut his throat. He grunted. It was becoming interesting, wasn't it? He almost regretted that he had to leave.

A rebounding echo of voices cut the night. "Here here here!" they rang, coming and going from every direction. They steadily grew louder — "Here here here!" — and then growing loudest of all, before falling away when the men burst into the clearing. One tripped over a fallen log, and went sprawling into the dirt. Auron helped him up, and dusted him off.

Warrior monks they were, stern-faced and owl-eyed. They weren't pleased to see Auron, looking unencumbered with anxiety. What right had he to be looking like that, after what had happened here? What _had_ happened here?

"What's going on, here?" one of them barked. His four companions looked on beady-eyed, eyeing the shadows suspiciously, as if waiting for something to come jumping out at them. Their fists were tightened around the hilts of their swords, eager to bear out the weapon.

Auron wiped his brow, and smiled. "It's all right. It's gone." He leant his sword (rather large) against a tree, so that there would be no doubts.

"What was it?"

"Chimera. Can't you smell the burning?"

They were skeptical. "Chimera? It sounded human."

Another growled, "Are you saying you defeated a chimera all by yourself?"

A familiar voice came pushing its way from behind the men, as solid as if it were physical. "Of course he did! You think a legendary guardian would have trouble with something as weak and simple as a mere chimera?" Kinoc followed his voice, bursting in through his men, beaming. "Auron!"

"Kinoc!"

Kinoc, his friend, the friend he had thought he'd never see again, leapt for him. They were both not showy men, but Kinoc was showy now. He had his arms around Auron's neck, hooting, and smacking the man against the shoulder, to see if he were real. Auron slapped Kinoc against the face, to see if the clean cheeks were real, chuckling in his manner.

The monks fell back, when they finally realized who was in their midst. Yes, this was Sir Auron, wasn't it? They looked on him much more becomingly now, than they had before, when they hadn't recognized him. How foolish of them: of course this valiant, upright man was Sir Auron. No wonder they hadn't recognized him in the dark — but what matter? The scar only made him more heroic, more distinguished. This man had once been a warrior monk, like them! He had learned everything he had ever known from the same men that they had learned from. They were brothers! Oh, they would have stories to tell their grandchildren: of the time they found the mythic Sir Auron, alone in the woods of the dark Macalania, murdering chimeras and iron giants with his bare hands! And he didn't even break a sweat!

They were disappointed monks when Kinoc sent them away, sending them back to their posts. Duty never dies in Spira, even in the presence of great men; Macalania still needed its patrols, and they were its patrollers. Kinoc stayed behind, however, to catch up with a friend. He hoped that Auron wasn't planning on getting any sleep tonight, because he wasn't going to get it.

Kinoc relaxed against a log, beaming, and rubbing his chin. They were laughing, again, at his clean-shaven face.

"Never thought that there was something decent beneath the beard, didn't you?" he roared, and pounded Auron against the shoulder. "Auron, Auron — I'm sorry: _Sir _Auron! I should have known you'd come back. You know, it really didn't surprise me at all when I heard. You're just too stubborn, even more than for your own good! Happy now that you didn't marry that priest's daughter after all, aren't you?"

Auron laughed genuinely. He was pleased, for so many reasons. He was pleased to see his friend; all awkwardness between them was gone now: Kinoc had taken his post — had jumped at the chance, even though he had been embarrassed to — but Auron had a better post now. It was almost like old times. And he was pleased, because with the warrior monks in close vicinity, even closer than before, and with the leader of them with him, he had no need to consider the assassins anymore. He wasn't certain if there were any more at all, and if there were, then so be it. He didn't care. The shadows melted away, under the eyes of Kinoc, and he could be at peace, and for a short time, pretend that the things that had happened never had. They were back together, comrades again, whiling away their nights on each other's arms, trying to keep out of trouble. Braska was at home with his daughter; Sin was still only a future threat; Jecht was yet a dream away; and he was still a warrior monk, and did not know of the lies of Yevon, and did not know death. And for that night, it really seemed to be so to Auron, and he forgot the promises that he had made.

**XV.**

He remembered on the morrow, however. Once Kinoc had gone, and the sun came shining valiantly, but vainly, through the trees, he remembered. He sat still one moment, wishing that the promises had never been made — not because he did not want to fulfill them, but because the reasons for their births had been so terrible. He let himself that second of weakness, and then he ground it out of existence, and stood to his feet. He gathered his things, and turned towards the way to Zanarkand, a newborn determination sterning his face. It was time.

Auron's second journey to Zanarkand was not like his first. He knew the way now, and his step did not falter. However, he had to be more careful, this time, of gaining the notice of the people; this time, the journey was in secret.

Luckily, the Calm Lands were wide, and by staying off the main road, which crawled with tourists, he went by unnoticed. Mt. Gagazet was more difficult; the eyes of the Ronso were everywhere. They knew every craggy outpost and cave, but luckily, the constant falling snows gave him the ability to travel by unseen. He could go in amongst the drifts that were not there before, and his footsteps were quickly covered by snow. If, by some reason, an assassin were following him — if he had somehow been seen by an innocent witness, who carried on the news without comprehension, to the ears of people who would be his enemy — they would find his trail nonexistent. He might as well have disappeared off the planet, which was his ultimate goal anyway.

It was strange, however; this was the second time he had walked this path. How many more times, Auron wondered, would he continue doing so, before he finally left this world behind?

His second ascent up the mount was much unlike his descent. Apparently, he had the appearance of life more so now, that he was an Unsent, than he had when he had been merely dying. The fiends turned their attentions to him, now. They had no power of discernment; if it walked healthily on two legs, and was what they once were, then it was their target, no matter that what they hunted had no more life than they. But Auron had his sword, and had lost his fear, and that was enough for him. No man or beast could keep him from his goal: Zanarkand of the dreams.

**AN: This originally was only supposed to be one part, but then Friday night, two characters came wandering in my head and told me to WRITE them, or ELSE. So there you go. See who I'm talking about next time. They're interested in Auron, and are interesting in themselves (IMO). Catch you on the flip side.**


	5. Long Road to Zanarkand, Part Two

**Disclaimer: **I do not own FFX. Other people do. I am making no money off this venture.

**AN:** Thank you all for your lovely remarks. Oh boy, the last chapter was such a yawn-fest (necessary, but yawn-inducing), hopefully this one will make up for it.

Journey of the Fallen: The Long Road to Zanarkand, Part Two 

**XVI.**

Sevek the Ronso was a sight to behold. Tall, burly, grave-faced, and of a halting tongue too, she was the example of her people. Unlike most Ronso, she wore boots — great big brown boots, surely made of the finest leather possible, surely come from thick-skinned cows! — wherein she hid stilettos. She wore no weaponry that was plain to be seen, but she had so much metal on her it was a miracle she didn't vibrate with every step. Knives and clubs, blades and hand-axes that fit into the palm of the hand, a nunchaku and a tiny thread that went wonderfully tight around necks: she was an advertisement for concealed weaponry, although there were few that realized what she was.

Perhaps it was the man at her elbow that further concealed her occupation. He had surely been born in the desert, for his hair had caught the sun and held it, and his cheeks were like the pink insides of the prickly pear, and speckled besides with jovial freckles. Certainly, the swirls in his eyes made him look forever dizzy, and the grin in front of his teeth was goofy, but that only made him seem all the more harmless. Why, people could even forget that he was Al Behd, and where the accent may have been annoying in his people, it was charming in him. He was a light foot, a jolly elf, a little cactus masquerading as a man! And how the two came to be put together was a mystery, even to those who actually knew what they were.

Sevek and Ennand had heard that an associate of theirs had been injured, and was laid up in an inn, nursing his wound. They thought to go visit him, and to comfort the invalid. And so the pair came bursting into the place (not known for its good reputation), ringing the bell above the door. And there, in the lounge, was their friend, their associate, their fellow man, nursing a burn wound delicately, looking pained in more than just body.

They recognized that look. It was a look of an assassin who had failed.

"Poor Kade," Ennand cooed. He handed Kade a bottle of potion, for the healer had not been yet: It was well to keep in good graces with bad company. He glanced around the main room of the inn, but it was dark with only a languid fire to keep things lit, and it looked as though someone had rubbed soot over the walls. There was not another soul to be seen, except for a wide figure, sleeping against the wall. "Were it a job?"

Kade groaned, and threw a hand over his eyes. He lay stretched out on a cot the innkeeper had graciously provided, his wounded leg festering on a pillow. He gripped the potion tightly. "Ye'," he moaned. "Threw me right into his fire."

"Oh, too bad."

"Lost my knife."

"Your knife! The fiend!"

"Barely made it out of there with my life."

Ennand tsked tsked, and smirked at Sevek, who stood across the room, looking a furred statue. Assassins could be friendly, but they were still competitive.

Kade continued telling his story, in between efforts to pull the cork out of the potion bottle with his teeth, and guzzling the sweet, purifying liquid. "Thought I had him. Tracking him through Macalania, picked up his trail just out of Beville. He stops for the night in a great thicket, where I can sneak up on him without being noticed, you know. Goes to beddy-bye, so I'm creeping along silent as a cat, pull my knife, jump him! I don't know, he must have already known I was there, because bam! He's awake, throwing me around like a blitzball, into the fire, yanking out this _sword_! I beat it — I know when I look a fool — but he didn't follow." Kade shut narrow eyes, and whistled. "It must have been the sword that saved my life. The thing was _massive_. Bink! Take your head right off. Slowed him down."

"Wha' sorta guy were this?"

"_Massive_!" According to his tone, Ennand imagined a ten-foot giant. "'Bout the size of Sevek o'er there."

Ennand raised an eyebrow. Sevek stood at nine feet. "So it were a Ronso?"

"No, just a guy. Some guy someone _big_ wants done away with."

Sevek grunted, and closed her eyes — slowly, haughtily, like the worshipped cats of Egypt must have done. Ennand's pickle-green eyes glinted at her, and he smiled like a rogue. A job then, was it? And they could charge more, if assassins were failing left and right.

Ennand continued ministrating poor, unfortunate Kade, who had gotten on the wrong side of his target. He plumped the pillow underneath Kade's head, he straightened the bed sheets, he helpfully handed over a mug of ale. He hummed, lightly, an Al Behd tune that was about the sun shining into your face, and the sand breaking uneven across your ankles, and biting flies milling about your head, and the sweat rolling down your neck. "Prickly cacti and cruel wind," it sang, "and dunes like mountains! Cursing your bones and mincing your flesh; the desert is my Home, my Home, my lovely Home." Kade softened and practically became melted butter, because Ennand could be very motherly, and Kade's mother had died when he was but a lad.

Ennand put his mouth next to Kade's ear. "So who be the job?"

Kade opened his eyes lethargically, but his eyes were hard. He wasn't that stupid. "Go 'way," he muttered. "You and your horrible grammar and your worse accent!"

"Come, come, Kade. You don't be running after him now."

Kade sighed, staring at the ceiling. It was true, but if the healer hurried, he could be up and out shortly. Of course, by then, one of the others probably would have gotten the job. He had thoroughly missed his chance to assassinate this fellow.

Kade stared across the room at Sevek, in admiration. She was the perfect mixture of beauty and power. She was tall, beautiful, and blue, with her hair in heavy white braids, falling down around her shoulders. Perhaps the tail and whiskers were too much, but still, with a partner like that…. There were many who wondered why she had chosen the lanky-legged Al Behd Ennand for a partner, and others said it was because the two were in love. Some day, there would be Ennand, balancing a baby on his knee, blue haired and swirly eyed. According to Ennand's look of utter revulsion whenever he noticed the leering gestures and rude remarks, Kade doubted it. No matter Sevek's reasons for partnering with Ennand, Kade just wanted _her_ for a partner.

Ennand was still attempting to ply him. "We'll gift you a piece of the cut, for the info."

Kade grinned. "Guy's named Sir Auron."

"Wot? The guardian from Braska? The guy chopping up Sin?"

"Yeah. Hey, you're not gonna go all noble on me, are you? Last guy I told — Foreshanker — got all noble on me. Felt that there were some targets that shouldn't be, you know. 'Man's a hero!' he said. Idiot. Job's a job."

"Foreshanker is a…" Ennand let it trail off, because he couldn't think of the word in the common tongue. The cook materialized out of the smoke, bearing a plate of smoldering meat, for the patient. Ennand took it from her, with a smile, and began cutting it into bite-sized portions for Kade. "Where's he be gone?"

"S'posed to be 'eading for Kilika, by way of Guado-town." Kade opened his mouth, and Ennand lovingly placed a bite of pork within. As he chewed, he looked back and forth between Sevek and Ennand. They both had inscrutable expressions on their faces. "So…you gonna take the job? I'd hate to see anyone else get it, 'cept for me, of course."

Ennand dunked the pork within the sauce, slowly, contemplatively. "Well, now, I don't know. Seem like we a little late to be running him now."

Kade shrugged. "Way this guy is, you probably got lots of time to get him. 'Twas only last night that he did this to me. Had to spend the night in Macalania, watching for warrior monks. Just follow the trail of injured assassins." He laughed, and Ennand joined in along enthusiastically. Sevek twitched her ear.

Ennand shoved Kade's plate into his hands, and stood. "We're gone now."

"We're going now, Ennand, we're _going_," Kade replied. Ennand smiled down at him serenely, as though having his grammar corrected didn't bother him. "Leaving already? So, you gonna take the job or what?"

"Like I say, don't know. He's being a hero now, isn't he?"

Kade cursed them, for turning noble on him, but he did it affectionately. The objects of his admiration and envy sauntered out, opening the door, letting offensive light stream in. Ennand waved once, and the door was shut, ringing the little bell over head. The innkeeper poked his head in, to see whether people had come or gone, before disappearing back into the gloom. Kade settled back, and slugged his potion. He hoped that Sevek would remember his kindness, when Ennand was dead, and she was looking for another partner.

**XVII.**

Sevek the Ronso had broken away from her tribe many years before, to pursue the path to riches and power. She had never been contented with the things that contented her people; they were pleased to dwell in the mount, to work at stone-masonry, to make a poor existence off a cold, cruel mountain that gladly took the lives of lesser men. The Ronso were satisfied to live in relative obscurity, as some sort of novelty amongst the other people of Spira: something to be looked at and admired, but to be put back on the shelf to gather dust. There had been other Ronso, however, who had not been content to remain mere trinkets in a glass menagerie. They went out into the world, and made themselves famous and powerful. There were the blitztballers — not that Sevek respected people who did stuff like _that _— but there were also the maesters and priests. People like that, Sevek admired. She wanted to be people like that. She didn't want to be a blitzer, or a maester, but to be famous…that was her desire.

After years of diligent hard work, she had attained her fame. Oh no, she was not famous amongst the ordinary people; it was those that needed bounty hunters and assassins who knew her. She was Sevek the Ronso, from whom, it was said, no man could hide. It was a high price to pay for her, but it was worth it, because she always got her man. She was swift of foot, and strong. Her eyes could see far, and where her eyes could not go, there went her nose, for she could track scent from miles off course.

Of course, there were even times when her nose couldn't get her very far, and that was where her partner came in. Ennand wasn't too fond of the way his people had chosen to live either. A life of excitement was what he desired, and it certainly wasn't exciting staying at Home, wilting underneath a cruel sun, watching sand worms slunk along in search for another meal. (He had to admit that it was amusing to watch the little many-barbed cactuses play amongst the dunes, but one could hardly make a good life of doing that.) So he and the Ronso assassin had joined forces, making a formidable team. Sevek said that she was pleased for the technical know-how Ennand brought, because sometimes it became physically impossible to finish the task; Ennand said that it was a great thing to have some muscle around, because sometimes you run out of replacement batteries. Where Sevek's nose could not go, there could go Ennand's machina, and through these two attributes, they were the most successful assassins Spira had to offer.

It was impossible to hire them. They hired themselves, and you wouldn't even realize it until they appeared at your house one day, sporting the hand of the target, which was the usual assassin's way of proving that the job had been finished. And it was in their usual manner of hiring themselves that Ennand and Sevek had gained the trail of Sir Auron. She was Sevek the assassin, and was Ennand her partner, and they were gaining on their quarry, the Legendary Guardian.

**XVII.**

Ennand chuckled into his sleeve. He was a happy man whenever they were being sly, and just now, they were being very sly. They had gone to the target's (Sir Auron's) campsite in Macalania, where there, Sevek picked up the trail. So while all other assassins were hurrying away towards Guadosalam, getting rained on and lightning stricken, chasing a ghost, they were heading towards the Calm Lands. There, they would face a gentle sun and crisp, pleasant breezes, and would be stepping in the footprints of the target, as he made them. Sir Auron had changed his destination so abruptly and cleverly that it was obvious that he was aware that he was being followed — not that Kade's failed assassination attempt would have had anything to do with that. But only Sevek's nose knew that. They would have their man, get their money, and have the joy of laughing at the other assassins, who were silly enough not to have a good nose.

A short time later, Ennand wasn't chuckling anymore. Their blighted target did not stop in the Calm Lands. No, he kept right on, through the lands, and on up to Mt. Gagazet. Sevek had murmured, "The home of my forebears," and Ennand cursed in Al Behd. He had been born and raised in a very warm climate, which, if it saw a rain drop, saw itself lucky. He hated Bikanel, but he had no desire to go to the other extreme, and go trudging around a place so cold your breath froze in your lungs and icicles shot forth from your mouth. A place that was so stingy over the water that it actually froze the stuff, in order to keep it fresh longer. It was all white rock and sheer ice, and the clouds settling on the path to make it blurred, and snow falling to make it even more so unpleasant, and the wind screaming around the corners. He regarded his companion's furry coat with a jealous-ridden eye, and attempted to keep warm by the slight emanations of his machina.

Sevek's nose took in the frosty wind with joy, twitching, for it had been so long since she had smelt Mt. Gagazet air. It twitched also because she had lost the scent and the trail, because snow was falling so fast it covered their footprints as soon as their feet left them. This was when Ennand became most useful; he had something that he called "radar", a machina nose, which was used to track life forms within a ten-click radius. Ennand was cursing, because he had to wipe the frost from off the view screen, where several cheery red dots blinked. Apparently, these dots represented life forms, and only he could tell which ones were men and which ones were fiends. They all looked the same to Sevek, so she trusted Ennand to tell the difference, to lead their feet toward the quarry, but to avoid the fiend.

"Cursed guardian gone insane!" Ennand spat. How he suffered. His cheeks were red and chapped, as if the wind had slapped them, and iced droplets clung to his eyelashes so that every time he blinked they went _chic chic_! Every few hundred feet in altitude they ascended, he added another layer of cloth around his face, until it was almost covered completely, and he had to brave the mount through a small sliver. The caves weren't much better. They were just as cold, and bats were in them besides. It was also difficult to outpace fiends there. "He's meant to got to Zanarkand." He shuddered, because Zanarkand was a cursed name in Spira. Although he had heard that it had once been a great machina city — what machines that must have had there, when no one thought to cry foul on technology! He was living in the midst of barbarians.

"Ennand and Sevek almost to the top. After that, only to go down," Sevek muttered, her eyes ahead at the way before them.

"And then warmer!" His tone was enraptured — he could hardly wait. He paused a moment, because something interesting was on his radar. "Sevek!"

"Ennand."

"Sevek, he's stopped!"

He tried to show Sevek on the radar, and Sevek did look, but it held no meaning for her.

"Not too far now!"

"Sir Auron waits on the peak." Sevek, for the first time on the mountain, shivered, her tail whipping around, straight and nervous. The peak was a forbidden place to the Ronso. There was something too terrible to tell tale of there, where only the summoners and guardians were permitted to pass. She had only heard stories, but such stories they were! People trapped within rock! Water that broke its own laws: did not fall, but went up! Rainbows in the sun! Springs that bubbled warmth from who knew where! So there had Sir Auron gone.

Ennand had not the fear of the taboo as had Sevek. He began scrambling up the mountain, his feet gaining little ground over ice, his legs looking like twin blurs in his eagerness to finish the job so that they might go back to warmer clime. He was shoving his machina away, and trading it for a silver dagger hidden in his boot. Sevek paused only a moment, and then she began racing up after him, as sure-footed as a goat. She flew over the rock, bouncing against the ice, bounding over snowdrifts, her braids jumping up in the air like birds in flight. She caught Ennand at the back of his coat (the one they had bought further down the mountain, from a Ronso merchant), and with him in hand, they flew. She was eager to kill their man before he went any farther into the forbidden land. She had seen the dead city Zanarkand once, and had no desire to do so again.

They stopped just before entering the arena where the prey had stopped. Ennand gave a little grunt of pleasure, for it was suddenly warmer, and whipped out his radar one last time. Yes, he was still there, standing still. What was he doing? Ennand thought of the sword Sir Auron was said to carry, and shuddered. The man was probably sharpening it.

Sevek was muttering a plan into his ear. She would go around to the other side — climbing the cliffs, as easily as a bearded mountain ram — and would come thus from that side, and surprise their quarry. In his distraction, Ennand would shoot the man dead, in between the shoulder blades. Ennand smiled — not that Sevek could tell, as it hid beneath seven layers of wool — and began outfitting his bow with arrows that sought heat.

He gave her shoulder a pat, and then she was away, springing up the mountain blithely. Ennand watched her progress on the radar, taking note of the red dot Sir Auron, who was blipping along in a pacing fashion. He chanced a quick glance around a boulder that hid his view from Sir Auron's location. Yes, there was Auron, as red in life as his dot, standing in a rocky place (no snow) in front of — Ennand whipped back around the rock, and stared desperately at his radar screen, as a sort of anchor to reality. What sort of person would choose to come to this place? What _was_ this place? What —

He pulled his bow, loaded, to himself, and stuffed the machina radar device back into his pocket. Sevek was in position, and would begin her plan. It was not the right time to get nervous over strange sights.

Poor Sir Auron: to have survived the pilgrimage, to have survived Sin, to have survived uncountable odds and Zanarkand…and to get eaten by a "fiend". It was too sad. But Ennand took comfort in the thought that life was full of little ironies like that, wherever there was person to pay enough for them.

Thus encouraged, Ennand poked his arrow, then his bow, followed by his head, from behind the rock. His eyes widened because the sights just kept getting stranger. He scanned the area, not minding the things he wished to have never seen, but not seeing the tell-able red. Where had their quarry gone? There wasn't a place for him to hide.

Sevek came creeping out from the other side, and her head turning left to right, she walked to the center of the rock pit. She looked lost. Her brown eyes landed on Ennand, from his hiding place, and he momentarily came out himself, shame-faced. He investigated the radar, and sighed. There was Sevek's dot, and there was his, right in the center…off to the east there were several small dots (fiends, no doubt), but there was no Sir Auron dot.

Ennand laughed a muffled laugh, and attempted to lick his lips in nervousness. His tongue met cloth.

"Where is he?" Sevek demanded. Her cat eyes were slitted, both ways, and slid from crevice to corner, searching for some impossible area that Sir Auron might have gone to.

"I don't know," Ennand replied. He checked the batteries on the radar, although that wouldn't have accounted for the odd disappearance. "He's gone! Fwip! In the air!"

"Impossible."

"No!" His eyes widened. Then, he blinked them, as the frozen droplets on his lashes melted. "Sevek, you thought he be Unsent? Maybe in the air he do go!"

Normally, Sevek would have pshawed such a remark, but here, in this place, it was difficult to pshaw. Bodies, caught in the rock-face, reached out, as if to escape; they had expressions of woe, mouths gaping, and eyes peering out. And the pillar of water, rippling rainbows across its surface…. She shuddered. This was a strange place that man had no right to enter.

Her eyes searched for those of her partner — brown and green, both edged with red. Ennand, haven taken the wraps from his chin, was licking his lips like a snake, darting tongue in and out. The blood had fled his face, which was a strange sight in itself, as he usually was well tanned.

"Ennand wishes to…" Sevek said, "…to meet Sevek's kinsman?"

"Do I?" He began wrapping his face again, eagerly. "Mother and Father Ronso! Brother, and little sister! Cousin and niece, uncle and aunt, nephew and grandmother!"

Together, they left the place where they had lost their man, and descended the mountain, towards the Calm Lands. They descended as though the entire ghostly population of long-gone Zanarkand — the machina city — was howling at their heels, reaching out stone fingers to touch their souls. It went unspoken between them that they would never mention this to anybody; no one would know what they had tried to do. Why, they had thought it wrong to assassinate such a hero as the Legendary Guardian, hadn't they? Even assassins had to keep their priorities straight, and if other assassins killed heroes, well, what was it to them?

**AN:** I like these two characters. Is it wrong to like assassins? I'm sure that it is. Again, the next chapter should be up pretty quick.


	6. Dreamland, Part One

**Disclaimer: **I do not own FFX. Other people do. I am making no money off this venture.

_**AN**: I am going through FFX withdrawals. Someone got the bright idea to trade, for a short time, the Playstation with a friend's X-Box. That was a mistake. Halo, while good, cannot feed me Auron when I need it. I write this to ease the pain. _

The Journey of the Fallen: Dreamland, Part One 

**XVIII.**

The Fayth had been dreaming for a thousand years, and were wearied of it: dreaming dreams. For so long, they had dreamed the same dream. There was no question of stopping the dream, but they did not want to continue. Dreams so old, not of their imaginations…and they knew the ending. If it had not been so, perhaps they wouldn't have been so fatigued.

No, that was not true, because something different had happened, and they still tired. But the dreaming was less torturous now, after the impossible had happened, and their dream had changed. It became something somewhat exciting and new; they had lost one of their dreams. He had wandered out too far, onto the fringes of their memory; a moment of inattention, someone's mind wandered, and he was gone. Vanished, gone, as if someone had woken up. They had been stunned. Some tried to find him (perhaps they had merely misplaced him), and some tried to get him back, but he had fully escaped their minds. This _was_ exciting. Who knew that such a thing could happen? They tried to do it again, make another dream real, but they were unable through sheer will alone. They wanted more, but they couldn't expect it. Fayth wish to be surprised every now and then, and want to be excited. But it was unlikely to happen again. They reconciled themselves to merely dreaming a new dream, because they had lost one, if even for a thousand years more.

Their reconciliation may have been wise, but it was not fulfilled. Something else exciting was happening. There was a ripple disrupting their order, being small, but growing, traveling out, affecting all. Everything shimmered for just a moment. They had no conception of what it might be. What was happening? It was like the relinquishment of Jecht, only…this time it seemed in reverse.

A larger ripple went out, and then they finally realized what had happened. Someone had impinged on their thoughts. It was a trespasser from the other world, moving through the streets of their minds, passing the people of their memories, like a blank spot that they could not contain. It was electric, it was awakening, it was…it was wonderful! Here was something new, truly new! He was no dream; he was not in their control. They had no foreknowledge of him, of what he would do, of what he thought, of how his reactions would go. He was a new thing, and changed their dream even more so than they had thought possible.

This had been a very good year. First the loss, and now the gain. There was a stirring. Things were happening. Perhaps, their dreaming would soon come to an end. Perhaps, the end that they had been waiting for was at the door, and knocking. And how eagerly they would answer.

**XIX.**

Zanarkand was dazzling. Even when it had been just a dead city, it had been dazzling; Zanarkand, of the memory, was blinding. It was a million lights, floating on water. It was a world contained within itself. It was the city of lights, it was the city that never slept. It was everything, and it was nothing, because it wasn't even real. It had been real, though, at one time, before the coming of Sin. And the reflection had the same appearance as the reality — and if it were a little flat, Auron had no conception of it. It might have been as real as Spira.

It was high towers: towers as high as the Maester's Tower, but the entire city was filled with them. Each one shone and blinked. The water reflected blue, white, red, yellow, orange, purple dots, like fireflies on the deep, bottled with lighting of the entire spectrum. And then, when there were fireworks for special occasions…a person had to turn away, for looking into the heart of the city was like looking into the face of the sun.

At first, it nearly drove Auron mad. No wonder Jecht had been so wound up, so obnoxious — a person couldn't help being that way, coming from a place like this. Noise from every quarter, it was impossible to find a quiet place. People talking, music blaring, machina whirring; it was a dissonant cacophony of sheer noise. What was worse was that the noise echoed off the high buildings, making the noise all the louder. And the people…he had never before met a people so carefree. There were sure of their place in the sun — no one could knock them down from their high place! "What, me worry?" was their theme. And all that there was to worry over was who was losing in blitzball. They knew not need, nor pain, nor despair. There were no fiends, nor was their Sin. They only knew how to smile and to laugh; but these were shallow, because these things were not made all the sweeter by the bitterness of sorrow. How unlike the people of Spira they were.

And what was _the deal_ with one pant leg being longer than the other?

Before Auron got used to the city, and no matter how stupid he had felt that asymmetrical clothing was, he had been glad to see it. Especially on his first day in Zanarkand, it had offered him something familiar to cling to, in this strange place. Walking the streets, looking for the way to Jecht's home, Auron sometimes felt that he was drifting away from this reality, by the strangeness. In those times, he had focused on the pant legs, and reality would come back in full force. It was a good tactic.

He had needed it, because here he had been confused and lost. How would he find the way to Jecht's house? He had asked several people, but they had looked at him strange, and many had given him conflicting directions. The waterfront seemed to be the only thing that the directions had in common, so he had been attempting to make his way there. He had wondered, though, how he was to tell which house was Jecht's. He hadn't wanted to disturb other residents…. This place was too strange for him to start doing things like that.

A street peddler, yelling, caught his attention. The salesman held up folded papers in his fists, waving them about, and stood in front of a magazine stand. A younger blonde woman sat within the kiosk, thumbing a magazine without interest. Her hair had been streaked with pink. "Maps to the homes of the stars!" the peddler screamed. "Ten credits per map!"

Auron blinked in a considerable level of surprise. Maps to the home of the stars? There were famous people on Spira, but no one would ever consider…. Imagine: guided tours to the homes of High Summoners, walk-abouts on the paths of a pilgramage…. It was absurd.

However absurd, this was also promising. Chin in hand, Auron mused. He had noticed a colossal blitzball stadium in his walk through the city, and one couldn't have missed the signs up everywhere for the game. Blitzball. At least that was one thing that Auron understood, although he had never been a fan. And apparently, Jecht had not been merely bragging. Oh, he was a braggart, but there was a certain level of truth to what he had said. The city reeled — still reeling, would always be reeling — under the strange loss of their hero, the glorious Jecht. It amused Auron to see the man's visage on every wall and on every screen. No wonder Jecht had been so arrogant. Here, he was practically a god. In Spira, they worshipped Yevon; in Zanarkand, they worshipped blitzball. Surely, they would have maps to his home, however a strange prospect it might be.

He stepped up to the kiosk, and pulled open a map. The girl behind the counter barely looked up from her magazine, and yawned. Auron looked over the map, at the strange markings and confusing road-system, searching for the ocean. He scratched his jaw in helpless frustration. Oh Jecht, couldn't you have asked for something else?

He felt prickling on the back of his neck, as though someone was watching him. He lifted his eyes, and there was the girl behind the counter, staring at him. She smiled, and lowered her eyelids heavily at him. They were painted purple. "You look lost," she said with a giggle.

"I am," he admitted. "I'm not certain of where I am."

"Oh!" She reached her arm over prettily, and pointed at a spot on the map. "There we are."

He scratched his jaw again, and pretended to look enlightened. "And then Jecht's — the blitzball player — house would be about…." He hovered his finger over the map. The girl helpfully reached over again, and pointed out a large star on the map. She giggled when he thanked her for her help.

"You're not from around here, are you?" she asked.

He paused, searching for an answer. The peddler, in finally noticing him, saved him.

"Hey!" the peddler shouted, red-faced. "You gonna buy that map? That'll be ten credits."

"Dad!" the girl whined.

"I am afraid I do not have any money," Auron answered. He had some Gil, but he was pretty certain that Gil would not work here.

That made the peddler angrier. "What? So you're gonna stand there, thumbing through our magazines and creasing the maps, without paying for them? Whatta you think we are? The library?"

"Dad!"

"I beg your pardon. You have my apologies," Auron replied, bowing his head briefly. The mouths of the peddler and his daughter gaped open. They eyed each other uncertainly from the corners of their eyes. He was a strange character to them, obviously.

"Just uh…" the peddler said, shocked and tamed, "don't do it again." He turned away hastily, and throwing up the maps again, began his peddling.

The girl was looking at Auron, her eyes wide, and then, lowered. Her cheeks matched the pink in her hair. "You're well-mannered, aren't you? Not many folks like that around here. Here, have one on the house." She pushed the map towards Auron, winking. He picked it up uncertainly, and then, thanking her most kindly, beat it before the peddler noticed. Apparently, the peddler had noticed, because he could hear the girl arguing with her father about "frightening very large customers."

Auron was starting to become pleased with this city. Perhaps the overly friendly nature of its inhabitants wasn't such a terrible thing after all. And once he finally figured out what direction the map should be held in, he found himself standing on the deck leading to Jecht's houseboat easily. It was about time he started having some luck.

Unfortunately, it didn't seem as though Auron's luck was going to hold out. No one answered his knock on the door. The place was utterly deserted. Looking around helplessly, he decided that he would sit and wait. He sat against on the dock, leaned against the houseboat, and opened the map. He would familiarize himself with the city, and perhaps, through diligent study, he would actually be able to get around the place without getting lost.

His stomach was attempting to consume itself, for lack of food. Auron wondered how long it would take. He was _hungry_.

**XX.**

Apparently, at some point, Auron must have fallen asleep, for he dreamed. Dreams within dreams…it was a strange prospect, but there it was. He was awoken suddenly, by an insistent prodding into his knee.

He opened his eyes, and there was a scuffle and a blur. It took a moment for the disorientation of waking in a strange (very strange) place to pass, so Auron didn't immediately notice the little boy standing over him. He did eventually notice, of course (there were those uneven pants again), and looked up, to meet eyes that matched the sky.

The blonde boy held a stick, with which he had been poking Auron in the knee. He was clearly athletic, for his cheeks were brown, kissed by the sun, and dozens of scratches and scuffs marked his knees and elbows. He looked very fierce for such a small child, a scowl seared into his face, and fists wrapped tightly around his timbered weapon.

"We don't want squatters around here!" he declared, and brandished the stick threateningly. "Get outta here before I call the cops!"

Auron tried very hard not to smirk, and remained seated. What a rude little boy. He _must_ be Jecht's.

"Tidus!" A woman's voice sounded. The owner was at the other end of the pier, scurrying up as quickly as she could, without dropping the bags that she held in her arms. Her hair flew out in strands from her face, and her eyes were upraised in worry. Auron lumbered to his feet, like an ox suddenly rising. "Tidus, come here!" she called, and the boy obeyed her, running behind her legs, but glaring at Auron from around them. He held his stick out, in case Auron should have forgotten it was there.

The woman — Jecht's wife — stood in front of Auron, with the same look of ferocity in her face that was in the face of her son. She looked pale and weak, but her eyes were very stern. "Hello," she said. "Can I…help you?"

"Yes…I believe that you must be Jecht's wife."

She narrowed her eyes at him, and made a slight noise in the back of her throat.

"I am sorry to come to you like this. I was a friend of Jecht's — "

"No!"

Auron stopped, alarmed. He hadn't expected that. "Excuse me?"

"No! Don't you people have better things to do?" She brushed passed him, shaking her head. She stepped into the houseboat, Tidus following. "I mean, what is wrong with you people?"

"Excuse me?" He didn't dare follow her. He had a feeling that if he stepped foot into her home, something bad would happen.

"Turning up out of the woodwork…'I'm his friend! Me and Jecht go way back!' Baloney! I'm his wife…I think I probably would have heard of you people if you were his friend. Don't you people have any decency? What is wrong with you people?" She was putting her bags down, onto a bench, and then pulling something strange and small out of her pocket. He guessed that it must have been some sort of machina.

He began to understand now. Many men and women must have come to her, pretending to be a friend of Jecht's, for what gain he couldn't say. "I am telling the truth."

"Uh-huh," she muttered, fiddling around with the object. She held it up to her ear, sighing. Tidus stood at the entrance to the boat, in front of Auron, holding his stick up like an inexperienced swordsman. Jecht had been incompetent with a sword too, until Auron had shown him.

Auron sighed. This was not turning out to be his day, his month, his year. He perked his ears up, when he realized that Jecht's wife was speaking into the object. He had seen other people doing such things earlier, but he had no idea of what purpose it must have served. Was it like a sphere, then, but recording only sound?

"Listen, I need someone to come done here right away," she was saying. "I have a trespasser."

Auron scratched his jaw uncertainly again. This wasn't looking very good. It appeared that she was speaking to someone else, and speaking badly about him. The device must be some sort of communication instrument.

"No, he hasn't actually set foot into my home, but what does that matter?" She glared at him. "He is very threatening to me and my family. I fear for myself. He is very large and very rough. He looks like the sort to have concealed weaponry." Auron jumped at that, and checked to make sure his sword wasn't sticking out anywhere. "Can I please have someone down here right away? Thank you." She put the phone down. "Tidus, come here!"

Tidus went scurrying back to her, and she took the stick from him. With bags in their hands, they whirled around, and they together went inside the boat.

Auron stood on the dock, helpless. What was he going to do? He hadn't come all the way here to put with this sort of nonsense. He could be in the Farplane by now.

She came back out, another strange object, and the stick, clutched in her hands. Tidus stood at the door, and yelled, "Go away!"

"I have called law enforcement. They will be here shortly."

"I am no danger to you or your son. I _am _a friend of Jecht's."

She was becoming agitated, and the fierce look on her face was being replaced with something more fearful. She attempted to maintain a brave front, but she was failing. Her hands went tighter around the things in her hands. "Uh-huh, sure, buddy. What's your name?"

"Auron — "

"Never heard of you. The cops are coming. You think I'm joking or something?"

"No. I assure you I pose no threat. I only want to talk."

"Get out of here!" She screamed, her voice trembling. She lifted the objects in her hand, as though they should have some meaning for him. "I swear to you, I am not afraid to use these!"

He held a hand out, imploringly. "I don't want — "

Apparently, he frightened her, because she whirled in action. She dashed towards him, holding up one of the objects, and spurted something into his face. He gasped and stumbled back. Liquid fire! Consuming — burning! Searing in his eye, his nose, his mouth! He shouldn't have felt it, but he did. He choked and covered his face. It was smoldering into him, eating him inside out. He groaned, and nearly collapsed. He stumbled about, drunkenly. He hadn't felt something this painful since he had died.

He couldn't tell where he was staggering — he wasn't aware that he _was_ staggering. He bumped against something hard, and a shrill shriek rung his ears. Something popped. Something exploded into his chest, something even more painful than before. It raged in his chest — he couldn't see, couldn't…all there was was pain. He jerked, and fell back.

Rushing cold enveloped him, awakening him momentarily. He had fallen into the ocean. The salt water scorched him. Water went into his nose, throat, mouth, ears. He floundered helplessly, for his right arm was suddenly useless. Every moment jolted him into another level of agony. The water went over his head — he went under. He tried to kick upward, but he went nowhere. The sword…the sword! Weighing him down….

Not truly knowing what he was doing — his entire world was torture, how could he be aware of anything at all? — he unhooked buckles, and a sudden weight fell from him. He swam up, and just reached the surface, gasped for air, and then the world faded out.

_AN: **Whoo. Who knew Jecht's wife was such a fireball? Which leads me to my next point: poor Jecht's wife. They gave her not a name in the game, which means that she will only be known as "Jecht's wife" in this fic. It was terrible neglect to her, on their part, wasn't it?**_


	7. Dreamland, Part Two

_**AN:** First of all, thank you for your reviews, you have no idea how encouraging they are. Secondly…you guys have no idea what TORTURE this chapter was! This is why it took so long to get out: I rewrote it no less than six times. In my endeavors, I created and annihilated two minor characters, two places of business, and several different directions the story could have taken. And I'm still not happy! But oh well. Sometimes, you've got to stop writing something, and stick it out there, and hope for the best. I regret I do not have the Bow-Wow syndrome that Walter Scott lamented that he had._

_Disclaimer: I do not own FFX. I am only borrowing the characters and setting for entertainment purposes._

**Journey of the Fallen: Dreamland, Part Two**

**XXI. **

Something wet was hitting his face, and a strong light, making Auron awaken. He gasped, blinking blearily against the…sun. It was the sun that was making everything so bright, and he was lying on the ground, face-up. He turned his face away, to the side, and met the gaze of Jecht's wife, her features a model for worry.

He took a moment to reflect on the bizarre twists his life had recently taken: death, dream Zanarkand, Jecht's wife attacking him. Jecht had described her as gentle and kind, soft-spoken and caring. She was a nurse. "She's like a…a deer!" the man had cried, in a moment of rare loneliness, and even rarer poor attempt at poetry. Auron, at the time, had hidden his snort of laughter by drowning it out in some drink. Love _must_ be blind, deaf, dumb, and stupid, because as far as Auron was concerned, she was none of these things.

She was doing a good job of rebuffing his opinion, however. Gone was the look of sternness in her eyes; they looked afraid and timid, brown like doe's eyes. She bit her lips in anxiety, and tears glistened at the corner of her eyes. "Oh, you're awake!" She cried. She sounded unbelieving, frantic. Terrified.

He blinked once or twice, and did a body check. There were no twinges, aches, or pains, except for the agonizing pain in the right part of his chest that worsened with every breath. "Yes."

She was pale, and she was crying. Her brown eyes bulged in terror. She applied pressure to the wound she had made, pressing hard down on a towel with the words "Bliztballers Rock!" on it. "You'll be okay, you'll be okay, you'll be okay, you'll be okay!"

He noticed that she was dripping water, her mousy brown hair turned muddy with salt-water. She must have fished him out. "I am certain. I believe the…shock did the most damage."

"Don't speak. Don't move. Stay still. You'll be okay." She spoke quickly, nervously, constantly, to soothe herself. "The paramedics are coming. They'll take you to the hospital — listen, I'm going to leave you for just a second. I need to fetch them when they come, to show them — "

Auron became alarmed when she mentioned the hospital. He understood hospitals very well, and those were the exact places that he, an Unsent, did not need to be, he, who could not die again. Jecht's wife was turning on her feet, and he leaned up, and grabbed her arm. "No!"

She rounded on him, mouth gaping. "What? Let go of me!"

"You cannot — I'll be fine."

"No! Let go of me! Listen, I'm a nurse. You _need_ to get to the hospital. Let go!"

He tightened his grip, and she struggled to free herself. She pulled, and he pulled back, and he slowly gained over her, and she rubbed her wrist raw against his hand. Each passing moment, he gained in strength, as the pain left him. The ridiculousness of the situation was not lost on Auron, and even as they fought, he laughed. He was certain that whatever Jecht had meant when he asked Auron to look out for his family, this wasn't what he meant.

Auron's amusement enraged his opponent. She pulled harder, and screamed, "What is wrong with you? You want to die? You want to make me a murderer?"

Her hand slipped from his. Auron caught a brief glimpse of a shocked expression, and then it disappeared as she went toppling back, landing onto her backside. She lay, gasping, and he rose above her, blocking the falling sun, glowering because she had tried to save his life. She forgot about the paramedics, as she stared at this man. She stilled.

"Do you see?" he asked her. "I am fine."

And it seemed to be so. "But…but I shot you!"

He twisted his mouth. "The wound is superficial."

"What? You mean I only grazed you or something?" Her face went hard, and she bolted to her feet. Their struggle had brought a slight stain to her cheeks, and they splotted, in indignation. "I'm a _nurse_! I know a gunshot wound when I see one! Let me see that!"

She was too quick for him, and she was prodding where she had shot him before he could evade her. She stepped back though, once she saw, blinking rapidly. She raised her eyes slowly to his.

"It…it _isn't_ serious," she murmured, her tongue darting to wet her lips. "I…er…" Weak smile. "I thought it was serious."

"Now you see that it is not."

The approach of sirens met their ears, rising over the swell of the ocean. Jecht's wife gasped, and whirled, biting her knuckle. "Are you certain you don't need to go to the hospital — oh, what a mistake! They'll fine me if you don't go! They'll think Tidus was just making a prank call."

And indeed, there was the ambulance, rolling its way towards the pier, and Tidus running alongside it, leaping like a hart in the chase. It rumbled near, wailing and wailing in furious alarm, and when it stopped, men came pouring out of it. They converged upon Jecht's wife, who held her hands out to helplessly stop them.

"Where's the victim, ma'am?" They were asking. They were grim-faced, and their words came rushed.

"Well…"

"That's the guy! That's the…guy?" Tidus came whirling around his mother, and stopped when he saw Auron standing, as fit as any fiddle. He glanced uncertainly towards his mother, and she placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Ma'am!" The paramedic demanded.

She wrung her hands, miserably. "Oh, there's been a terrible mistake."

Auron stepped forward. "Yes, we're sorry, but we have no need of your services. It appears that this has been some sort of school-boy mischief."

He peered down at Tidus, who, according to the expression on his face, must have had his head churning. The boy stared back at him just as critically, teeth grinding as his mother pinned the blame on him. Auron sympathized; he had seldom seen a mother so quick to offer her child up as the sacrificial lamb.

She explained to the paramedics what a prankster her child was, although he had never pulled a prank this badly before! Here she was, saying, "Oh, yes. I mean to discipline him very harshly!"

"What?" Tidus yelled. "But Mom, he _was_ hurt!" Auron cocked his eyebrow at him.

"You're mistaken Tidus! Look at him, does he look hurt to you?"

"But you said — "

"That's enough! We're not going to argue about it anymore. Inside, now!" Tidus's mother could be stern when she needed to be, and there were even times when the child knew that it was just best to obey her. He turned on his heels, and headed towards the houseboat, muttering darkly to himself. Auron watched him go with a certain amount of regret.

The paramedics, thus satisfied, left in their ambulance, much more silently than they had come. Auron and Jecht's wife silently watched them go, before they turned awkwardly toward each other.

She looked relieved (slight smile, brow cleared), and yet she seemed nervous (eyes fearful). Auron had never seen a woman capable of so many emotions, so quickly. "Why didn't you go with them?" she asked.

"I dislike hospitals." It sounded lame, especially in his own ears.

"What, you don't have insurance or something?"

Auron declined to answer. Insurance, in the meaning he knew it, probably did not mean insurance in the way she meant it.

"You really should get that looked at! It could get infected."

"I will, do not worry."

"Well, good."

They stared at each other for several moments. Auron wondered if it was very deep where he had dropped his swords. She wondered on the oddness of the man before her.

"Why…did you do that?" he asked.

Her hands flew to her cheeks, to cover her blush. She wished to appear unyielding, again. "Well…you wouldn't go away! Most people leave when I threaten to call the cops."

"As I said before, I merely wished to speak."

Irritation crossed her face, and suddenly, she was fierce again. Auron had never before seen such a woman of quick emotion. "Right. About Jecht, right. I hear that a lot!"

"I am telling the truth. I don't know what else I can do to convince you, except to tell you what I know of him."

"Uh-huh. And then you'll want money or…something. I haven't figured out, yet, what people want from me."

"_I_ only want to talk."

"No. No! No, I don't — well…" She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth, and her eyebrows came down low over her eyes. When she spoke again, she spoke warily, the words slow to come, and her tone even lower than before. Her desire to speak to somebody who knew Jecht, was too great in her. She could not contain her curiosity. "You say you can tell me of him. Then tell me of my husband, Jecht."

Auron gave the one short grunt that was representative of his laughter. This was becoming entirely too ridiculous.

"And don't," she continued, "tell me about what he looks like. 'He's got dark hair, and he's a blitzball player' won't cut it. Tell me something about _him._"

"He's a drunkard."

She gave a fierce gasp in outrage.

"And he's a braggart. He's full of himself, arrogant, crude, irresponsible, thinks he's above the law, curses…I would continue, except," smirk, "I don't wish to offend."

It took her a moment to respond. Color, born of rage, rose into her face. It made her look better, Auron thought. It made her look healthy. "You think this is some sort of joke?" she snapped.

"Absolutely not. Can you deny that these were his flaws? Would anybody who did not know him be able to accurately name them?"

That made her pause again, although she seemed loath to do it. Finally, she crushed her curiosity, her desire to speak to someone regarding her husband, and aimed to rebuke him. "I don't care who you are. Get out of here. Next time, I won't miss!"

She fled towards the door of her houseboat, her short hair bobbing in accompaniment to the bounce of her step. She was remarkably quick, and dashed inside like a frightened rabbit. Momentarily, Auron could see her shadow at the window, peering out at him.

And Auron sighed as he left, heading not he knew where, because life had suddenly become very hard, and very odd. Perhaps he hadn't gone about watching over Tidus the best way possible. Perhaps, he should have eased the little family into it. Yes, that was what he would do, he decided. They were obviously terribly jittery, and if he wished to gain ground with them, he would have to be gentle. He smirked. Gentle… like a deer.

**XXII.**

Auron did not impose himself on Jecht's family again. He was certain to remain seen, but not in such a manner where they might feel threatened. He was merely another person of the city, busying about the business of his life, passing them and meeting them without clear intent. He could maintain an easy strolling manner, which made him appear to have an aim that had little to do with them. If they passed on the street, he nodded once at them, and went by. She would look away, her brow rutted; Tidus stared at him boldly, with curiosity and daring.

Tidus was the instrument that caused Auron to feel that he was accomplishing his goal. As a child, he lacked the caution of an adult, and if, in his wanderings away from home, he met Auron, he spoke to the man. Their first meeting had taken place in a diner, where a waitress was laying down pie in front of Auron, boysenberries and raspberries spilling out, glistening like garnets and amethyst.

Auron raised his eyes to her. "Excuse me, I did not order this."

She grinned at him, like she knew a joke that he didn't. "I know. Your friend did, though." She jerked her head before leaving.

Auron turned in his seat, in the direction that the waitress had indicated, and frowned. There wasn't anyone that he knew (as if he honestly _knew_ anyone in Zanarkand). An old man, reading a paper; two young women, giggling over the latest gossip column; and a series of four boys, eating ice cream. Wait…one of them was Tidus, nodding at him like they were old friends, and raising his hand in a brief wave. Smirking, Auron returned the greeting. The other three boys stared at him, their eyes big in their faces. He turned back around, and good-humoredly investigated the pie. He wasn't used to being made the butt of boy's jokes. But that was no reason to let a perfectly good piece of pie go to waste.

He had consumed half, when a tap was on his elbow, and a small body was sidling next to him. It was Tidus, of course, nodding his head like a businessman. Auron smiled, and looked down at the child. Tidus stared ahead, scratching his chin.

"How you've been?" the boy asked, seriously.

"Very well." Auron had to bit the inside of his mouth, to keep from laughing. "I expect the same for you."

"Oh, yes, yes. Things have been very good. I got an Excellent on my science test."

"Very good…I must thank you for…" Auron waved his fork over the pie.

"Don't mention it. It was my pleasure."

"How is your mother?"

Tidus shook his head sadly. "To be honest with you, badly. She has a cold." His eyes stared sideways at Auron. "I'm afraid she's been swimming in the ocean, you know."

"Yes."

"Yes. That can make you quite ill. Well, it was nice talking to you. My friends and I must be pushing along." Tidus swept out of the booth, and held his hand out. Auron shook it firmly, and then the boy was gone, racing out into the street on the heels of his friends.

**XXIII.**

Auron later discovered the reason for Tidus's actions that day. The boy, himself, explained:

"I told those other kids that I knew you, and they didn't believe me."

"So you ordered me a piece of pie, as though we were two old friends."

"Yes. But then they _still_ didn't believe me."

"So then you came over and spoke to me, to prove to them that we were acquaintances."

"Uh-huh."

"Did they believe you after that point?"

"Yes."

Tidus had also discovered that Auron was a great sport that day, and thereafter, he spoke to the man every time he saw him. Ask Auron if he really knew Jecht, wondered what it was like to be sprayed with mace, and jibber-jabbered about his life. School, and blitzball — mostly, blitzball. The child was determined to become a great player like his father, although if you asked him, he was sure to make it clear that he _hated_ his father. That didn't stop him from performing the Jecht-shot, however, and it was the one great disappointment in his life that he couldn't.

His mother remained aloof, but Auron sensed that she was slowly becoming tolerant of him. She came and spoke to him once, after he had lived in Zanarkand for several weeks, one evening. He was standing out on a pier, leaning against a rail, watching the ocean. This was one of the quietest places in the area, where the sounds of the city were fallen away, muffled by the music of waves. It reminded him of home, especially when the clouds broiled overhead. They were the reservoirs of the sky, and heaved their reserve down. Rain falling, water hitting against water, dimpling the ocean: these sounds, these sights, brought back home to him. Zanarkand was, at this time, most like Luca, and while Auron had never been fond of Luca, at least it was familiar.

Night was gaining, so that the luster of the city was magnified. Each light was reflected in each pockmark of the sea, so that the entire waterfront glistened, spangled with a thousand thousand tiny candles floating on water. The world was shushed at this time. Zanarkand could be very beautiful.

Caught up in the sight, remembering times past, he didn't notice that a person had drawn close until the rain suddenly ceased falling on him. There was a new sound, like dozens of fingers drumming on sheet drawn tight. He glanced up, and then to the side, where Jecht's wife stood, holding an umbrella over them. She smiled weakly at him, and stepped closer, drawing her jacket around herself more firmly. "You're just going to stand out here in the rain?" she asked.

He looked out towards the ocean, and shrugged. "It is no bother."

They stood in silence then. Auron waited, determined not to scare her off. She would come to him, if he gave her time. She was too curious about the man that claimed to have known her misplaced husband, to just let him pass by. She was dying without her husband.

She inhaled, before she spoke. "I lived in terror that night, the day that you came."

He stared at her. She looked gray in the fading light. Not even the colored illuminations of Zanarkand could paint her bright.

"Of the cops," she explained, softly. "I was sure that you would have prosecuted me, for what I had done to you. I was sure that you would have called them, for what had happened. It had been uncalled for. I was just so nervous. The phone wasn't working, no matter my bad acting, and I was so tired of people coming to me about Jecht — people claiming to have known him, but who clearly don't. Parasites!" Her disgust gave her tone a brief acidity. It quickly fell away, so that she was demure again, trembling in the rain. "Anyway…I was terrified that I would get hauled away or end up in court or something like that. Jecht's wife, gone crazy. I thank you and apologize."

"I realized you were alarmed. I shouldn't have pressed it."

She was laughing, and her laughter sounded like bells. "It was an incredibly stupid thing to do. I don't know what I was thinking. So stupid!"

Auron stayed silent, because he had noticed from what he had seen with her (and from what Tidus had told him), that she _was_ incredibly stupid when it came to her husband. In her daily life, when things were as they should be, she was cunning and capable, and exceptionally shrewd in matters of money. She maneuvered herself through the market places, haggling with the peddlers, a basket on her elbow, filled with wares she had gotten for half the money than what other people had paid for them. But when she was thrown into an unfamiliar situation, when things were strange and unknown, and especially when they regarded Jecht, she became befuddled and nervous. Her confidence was lost, and she shrank into herself. And she did so, to the greater, every day that Jecht was gone. Auron wondered if it was wrong to love someone that much.

"So I again, must thank you," she continued. Water dropped, in droplets, from the umbrella, behind her. They were lit with the lights of the city as they fell, so it appeared as though diamonds fell from her head. She stood in a sea of falling stars.

"It is forgotten. And I would not have done that to him."

She raised her eyes to his. "Did you really know Jecht?"

"Yes."

Shy smile, lowering of the head. "Yes, I suppose you must. I've been thinking about it, and I concluded that you must have, to have been able to…point out his faults so thoroughly. That wasn't what I had expected, but…no one else has been able to give me that." She laughed. "All the other people that have come, when I asked them to describe Jecht, couldn't say anything even approaching that!"

"I only knew him a short time, but he left his mark. He was a good man. Very brave."

They smiled at each other, and from that day they were friends, brought together by their mutual knowledge of Jecht. They would never be friendly, but they were two acquaintances that revolved around the satellite Tidus. When she lay in the hospital, dying, he had gone in and berated her; and she took it, and understood it, and died anyway. And he was permitted to look out for the boy, even if only passively, and fulfill the promise he had made to Jecht. Things were as they should be, and if Auron wasn't happy, he was at least content.

Auron never forgot the sound of Jecht's voice, but when he heard it again, ten years later, he did not believe it.

_**AN: **As I saidbefore, I regret that I do not have the Bow-Wow Syndrome Walter Scott spoke of. I try to make things big and flashy, but they always end up more subtle and low-keyed…too much Jane Austen, I guess. The next chapter should be out quicker than this one, mainly because I'm fairly certain I won't have to write it over and over and over. Next chapter is titled **Sin Rising**. Catch you then._


	8. Sin Rising

_**AN: **Ah, yes FrequencyQueen, the co-dependency of Jecht and his wife was probably great. When Jecht wasn't trying to play Mr. Tough Guy, he was probably sickening to be around._

_What do you call people from Zanarkand? Zanarkands, so that they sound like little cities? Zanarkans? Or perhaps Zanarks? But this makes them sound interstellar: "We come in peace…." Is it like Canada? So, the way people from Canada are called Canadians, are they Zanarkians? What about the Irish, or English: Zanish? Zanarkish? Zanarish? It's like the answer to the Tootsie-Roll Pop question: the world may never find out._

_**Disclaimer: **See chapter one_

**Journey of the Fallen: Sin Rising**

**XXIV.**

It did not take long for Auron to establish himself firmly into the dream world. He had always been resourceful and adaptable, and soon, Zanarkand could have been Beville to him. He knew the streets, the people, the ways, maneuvered through all of these as though they could not impede him. Indeed, they could not, and Zanarkand may as well have been Spira, for all the movement he was allowed. He would certainly never be lifted on their shoulders, but he made acquaintances enough, and lived a good life there. There was the daughter of the street peddler, who gave him something "on the house" every time he passed (not that he was in desperate need of city-maps, guides to the homes of the stars, and gossip magazines). Even her father, the peddler, grew to tolerate him, and turned his back significantly when his daughter shoved wares into Auron's hands. But of all the people in the city, none were as esteemed to him as his charge, Tidus. Tidus, who, after the death of his mother (who had as truly died of a broken heart as any fairytale maiden), had seemed so lost. Tidus, who was growing into a man. Tidus, who was becoming just like his father (while still maintaining that he _hated_ the man), and yet had enough of his mother in him to remain likeable. For, even though Auron had respect for Jecht, it didn't mean that the son should turn out like the father. Auron was, perhaps, the only person in the entirety of Zanarkand who thought so.

It was to be expected, however. Auron stood out. Even when he became used to the place, and was no longer dazzled by the lights and noise, he stood out. Even when he had an…_Apartment_ (he always said it importantly to himself, because apartments like that didn't exist in Spira), he wasn't of them. It was obvious that he was not cast from the same material as they. He was calm, where they were excited. They flitted to and fro, not knowing where they be, nor where they go: he was like an unmovable rock in a stream of rushing water; they had to part before him. Their every step was root-less, as though they were carried away with the wind; his steps were leisurely, and firm. Every word that proceeded out of their mouths was vain, was the useless chitter-chatter of those who speak only to hear themselves speak: He didn't speak unless it served a purpose, and every utterance had a weight. They were much friendlier than he could ever be — but then again, none of them probably had a very large sword in their possession, awaiting the day when it would be put to use again.

**XXV.**

It would be ten years, before the sword was to be put to use again. When it came time, Auron was ready. Jecht had given him the warning.

He had been walking the glittering streets of Zanarkand, hitching down catwalks that hung underneath massive ad campaigns that could never quite convince Auron that he needed to purchase what they pushed. It was the eve of the memorial blitzball game, commemorating the ten-year disappearance of the great blitzballer Jecht. He had evaporated into the ocean, and they were still awaiting his unequivocal return. His son, try as he might, could not replace the man. But until he did come back, they would take what they could get.

Indeed, it seemed much more like a celebration than a memorial. It might be in the spirit of Jecht to throw a blitzball game on such an occasion, but it seemed perverse to Auron. Zanarkand didn't know how to do anything by halves, and anything and everything was an excuse for a party.

One advertisement poster — a mammoth thing that could be seen from ten blocks away — had been briefly replaced with the visage of the hero, Jecht. His arms crossed, he stood cock-sure of his superiority and dominance. Auron was walking underneath this photo, and looked up. Yes, Jecht looked down on him as though he were the overlord of the city. Auron grunted in amusement. Yes, that was Jecht. The blizter wasn't even around, but his presence was felt all the same.

Auron turned away, and continued his stroll, past rushes of people. A chillingly familiar voice halted him in his steps, calling his name.

"Hey, Auron! Where do you think you're going?"

Auron stopped. It felt as though someone was blowing softly down his arms and down the back of his neck, and forced the hairs to reach for the sky. He whipped around, searching the faces of the masses that passed. Their faces flashed blue, green, yellow, red as they passed underneath the lights, but none of them held recognition in their glance. What — ?

"Hey! Up here!" The voice continued. "Yeah, there you go."

Auron glanced away from the oversized picture of Jecht. It did not move, but it had distinctly spoken, as convincingly as if it were alive, and as if its lips had moved. Suddenly, the smug expression looked smugger.

Auron looked around. It was a recording: that was what it was. Someone was playing an old recording of Jecht…of Jecht speaking his name. Ah, but then, surely Jecht must have known more than one Auron in his lifetime. Auron wasn't _that_ uncommon of a name. Surely there was another wandering these same streets —

"Yeah, that's right, Auron, it's me. It's me Jecht."

This was becoming quite irritating. Where was it coming from?

"Man, I always knew you were a stiff, but this takes the cake!"

This _really_ wasn't funny. Auron began whirling around and around, and was like (for him) an over spun, red top. The people walking by began giving him a wide berth, and looked at him with alarmed, wide eyes. They didn't want to get caught in the crosshairs of a large, stern-faced man, searching about for something. Oh Farplane, he was loosing it. This place had finally gotten to him.

Jecht, somewhere, laughing in his head. Laughing, laughing, at him with the same old laugh, as though the man had never… And the words, spoken: "Hey! I told you: _up here_! This isn't funny anymore!"

Auron resigned himself to insanity, and looked up. Jecht's poster was definitely speaking to him, although it made not a movement. The smirk was immobile and eternal.

"Good," Jecht-image said. It was the same old voice. He still sounded so arrogant, as though he was secretly self-conscious, and was attempting to cover it up. His voice was still rough, almost falsely so, as though to make him seem tougher than what he really was. The tattoo had been emblazoned across his chest to, undoubtedly, make himself seem more fearsome; if Auron didn't know that Jecht was somewhat afraid of pain, he would have too thought that Jecht had surely scarred himself, on purpose.

Jecht-poster continued speaking, impossibly. "It's about time you started cooperating. You don't have a lot of time to be messing around with me."

"Jecht."

"Yeah. You sound shocked."

Auron grunted. Or maybe insane.

The laugh again; it sounded as though Jecht was standing right behind him, but he wasn't, of course. "No, you're not." When, Auron wondered, had Jecht learned to read minds? "Not any worse than you've ever been. Hey! You better stop standing there in the middle of the street, talking to yourself. You're starting to get funny looks."

"I don't blame them."

"It's because they aren't real enough to hear me."

Auron dashed to the wall underneath the verbose poster, and leaned against it, attempting to look relaxed. This way, he wouldn't seem so strange talking to himself. He'd just look like all the Zanarkans out there, who spoke to others far away, using invisible earpieces. On Spira, you'd be taken to a healer for doing something like that. Here, they called it long distance communication.

"Jecht, what — "

"Hey! Let me do the talking. I already told you, you don't have a lot of time to be messing around. I'm here to warn you: I'm coming. That's why I can talk to you like this. Tomorrow, I'll be here. Well, _not_ me, but me, you know."

"Sin," Auron murmured. Something knocked his heart.

"Yeah. Hey, you remember that sword of mine?"

"Yes."

"Good. I want you to give it to Tidus."

"And how am I to do that?"

"Don't worry about it. I got it covered. Hey, I told you I'd come up with a plan, remember?"

Auron had forgotten. Jecht _had_ said that, hadn't he, before the end? Well, he supposed that if there was anyone most qualified to plan a defeat of Sin, it would be…Sin. And the plan…even if it wasn't a great plan, it was still more than what Auron had.

It was time he dusted off the sword, then. He readied to remeet Spira. It was sickening, but he feared that he would miss this place, this Zanarkand, even if only a little bit.

**XXVI.**

Sin came in the night. He moved above the water, in shadow, a silent heaving up of the sea in black night. Even if he hadn't been as a shade, no one would have noticed him. And when he was no longer a shade, but a very clear threat, a mass of impossible watery anger aiming to consume the city, no one noticed. The city that never sleeps, under the rising of their destruction, slept. Ah, they were blinded by the things of the world they were accustomed to, and had no fathoming of things that were from other worlds. Their revelry deafened them, their lights blinded them, their games unfocused them; they could not see the fate that awaited them, that hung over them like a terrible cloud of judgment. And when it would strike, it would be a complete surprise, and they would be unprepared for it. Warning sirens would sound, but it would be too late, too pointless. The towers would fall — the awesome, blinking towers of flame — and smoke would rise. The force of his exhalations would bring down the city, and his inhalations would clean it away. The very water beneath them, which had served so long as a dutiful servant and playful companion, would rise up like an enemy. Their end would come out of the water, from twin domes that contained it.

**XXVII. **

There was one who had been prepared, and was ready to meet it. The old terror staring him in the face, it was like seeing an old friend. There was no panic. Auron stood on an overhang high above the city, on one of its tallest buildings, wind buffeting him, where he could escape the sounds and the sights and see Sin. He raised his jug in a toast: To old friends, and old enemies, returned.

Sin hovered above the city, a wall of water about him, like a cloak, like a shield, like a covering. The eyes of Sin, glowing white in the reflection of the city glow, swept up underneath the water. Auron had no cause to fear. This Sin — not Jecht, because Jecht had not been Sin at this time, but Jecht, because Jecht was Sin _now_ (dreams could be confusing at best) —, Jecht-Sin, was a vehicle between worlds. Because he belonged to both worlds, he could be used to transport dreams and reality, to other places. He had already proven this, by bringing Auron the sword that he wanted to be his son's.

Auron roused himself. It was time that he found Tidus. They had work that must be done.

And as the city fell around him, he paced the streets, and thought of Spira.

_**AN:** I've been playing FFX-2. That game cracks me up. Who knew that a concert had the power to bring peace into the world? "I hear this song, and all of a sudden, I don't want to kill anymore." Now, in FFX, they played the Hymn of the Fayth to soothe the savage beast…perhaps they should put on a concert instead, and that would have stopped Sin altogether. Okay, only a few chapters left, and then this story is done (unless I get some crazy ideas, of course). Next chapter is titled: **Return to Spira. **It may turn into a two parter, so we'll see then._


	9. Return to Spira, Part One

_**AN: **Well, people, this is nearly done. I am dead serious. There's something like three chapters left, and then this fic will be done done done. Whew, I think I will be glad. I say it's because I'm tired of writing something so full of super-drama, symbolism, imagery, theme, and whatever else, but then I know, the next thing I write will be full of these things too. Oh well, I guess I just can't help myself. _

_**Disclaimer: **See chapter one_

Journey of the Fallen: Return to Spira, Part One 

**XXVIII.**

Because of the nature of the raging beast, the terrible weapon, Jecht had less control over what he brought to the real world than what he could bring to the dream. True, both Auron and Tidus were swept up with equal ease, but the deposition was harder to control, and he could not be as fine with them as he would have liked. It was too easy to get lost in the blood rage of the creature — the lust would move upon him, anger would rise in his being like a consuming flame, burning his brain until he was no longer himself, but was only Sin Sin Sin, come to destroy. He could take the beast where he wanted it to go, but once there, he had to do what he — Sin — was made to do. So when the son and the friend were flung out, they ended up on either sides of the land, and were separated. But the people of Spira were kind, and Auron was resourceful. Jecht had no doubt that Auron would continue to finish his oath, and did not worry for the sake of his son. And so he would continue, bringing the judgment, until the time of his undoing.

**XXIX.**

The song of the Farplane was silenced in the dream world of Zanarkand: This was the continuing thought in Auron's head, when he returned to Spira. He wasn't sure if the song had not been there at all, or if merely the noise of the great, light city had drowned it out, but there, he had not heard it. Spira, on the other hand, rang with it. Every passing moment he heard it growing louder and louder, calling him to it, like a mother looking for her child. He wanted nothing more than to be there, in her open arms.

That option was out of the question, of course. Not yet, not yet, not yet. There were things that must be done. There was the final vanquishing of Sin.

On the road to that city, Auron learned that Spira was never changing. On the night, in Zanarkand, before he returned to the real world, he had been slightly off kilter. Would Spira have changed during his absence? Surely not, it was slow to do such things, but the doubt had still been there. There was never telling what might have happened in ten years, although if the maesters and Yu Yevon still had their way, things would not have changed one iota.

He was pleased, and in some ways, sickened, to see that it hadn't changed at all. People still followed the old faith, performed the prayer (not so much a prayer, after all, was it?), praised the deceiver. Machina and its users were still vilified. The fiends were still strong, and gaining, for Sin moved upon the waters. The maesters had their power as ever, perhaps even more so, and Beville was still the center of religion. But warrior monks still patrolled, standing alone against the forces of nature, to do their duty. Women still lived with their husbands, raising children; their husbands still tilled the soil, sold their wares, ran their shops and made their gil. Ah, gil! Auron still had some in his pocket from ten years ago. It was a little worn, rubbed around the edges, but the shopkeepers took it without question. The good things in Spira were still good, and the bad things were still bad.

There were, of course, a few changes. Auron kept his ears and eyes open, along the road, to learn of these things. He looked up the present list of the maesters, and did not find the names of Yet or Aver. They must have been dead then, or deposed, although he certainly doubted the latter. Aver…perhaps; Yet, definitely not. Later, he discovered that Aver had died from disease, and Yet by a Sin attack. Her grand house came down around her ears. The death was still quite recent, and they were searching for another to take her place. Maester Mika was more powerful now then ever (did he know the truth?) and Kinoc had risen considerably so. There were statues of Braska, and songs sung of the last High Summoner. There was news of the daughter, and of her intent to follow her father's footsteps, and follow his pilgrimage.

Auron passed several days before someone recognized him. He hadn't thought that he would return some sort of celebrity, but the people would have it that way. It was a warrior monk that recognized him, on Mushroom Rock Road. From there, the news spread quickly, as all news on Spira did. Had they heard, Sir Auron? Sir Auron, the Legendary Guardian, guardian to High Summoner Lord Braska —! Nobody's properly seen him in ten years! Disappeared off the planet, he did! Well…Sir Auron!

It was embarrassing, but at least this was Spira. If this were Zanarkand of the dreams, there would be _people_, pressing from all sides, asking for autographs on indecent parts of their bodies.

The talk on the road, of Braska's daughter becoming a summoner, and beginning her pilgrimage, interested Auron much. There was no joy or sorrow to hear the tale, but he was certainly interested in meeting her. He needed a summoner, if he was to help vanquish Sin. Surely, surely, she wouldn't refuse Sir Auron, her father's guardian, if he wished to become her own. He heard that she had begun from Besaid — sleepy island Besaid, home of the feathered dragon — and had been Kilika, and was going to Luca. Ah, then his steps lay toward Luca, for he had a mind to join her.

There were other reasons to go to Luca. He had to find Tidus. Auron knew where the man would be. Young and easily excitable, he would quickly make friends in Spira. People were drawn to Tidus; they could feel that, in his presence, he meant them no harm, and only wished not to be brought to harm by them either. He encouraged devotion, and an older brotherly sense of protection towards him. And, he was a blitzer. If there were any place that he would end up, it would be Luca, in time for the championships. To Luca then, where the waves lapped the edges of the city, where white gulls called in the harbor, where all of Spira gathered for their entertainment, where a large dome stadium threw its shadow over the city. Beville was Spira's faith; Luca, Spira's astonishment.

And there was another man who looked upon the return of the Legendary Guardian with interest, and not because he viewed the man as a hero. He remembered a time when Sir Auron had been declared enough of a threat that the threat should be eliminated. He had lost his chance to be the one to eliminate the threat, but now, he would make up for that terrible deviation. He would become the most famed assassin in all of Spira, and would show once and for all, you didn't need to have a Ronso or a machina to be strong.

**XXX.**

It was difficult guarding such a young summoner. Braska had been much older than was Yuna, and the differences were clear. While they both shared the same determination to finish the pilgrimage (there were many summoners out there who went on a pilgrimage only half-heartedly, more for the novelty of the situation than to actually gain the goal), Yuna was much less steady-footed than had been her father. She was wont to distraction — that was unfair. Most summoners were wont to distraction; she was just more obvious about it. She was still practically a child. Braska….

Auron was interrupted from his ruminations by the arrival of a small group of pilgrims, arriving at the Al Behd Trading Post just outside the Macalania Temple, for repose from the elements. He had been standing outside, underneath the awning, leaning against a pole, watching a snowstorm. He had seen the group from far off, and as they approached, a prickling on the back of his neck grew the more aggravating the closer they approached. It was not the arrival of the group that distressed him, per say; it was the presence of a Guado within that group, his arms and fingers long, and the look in his eye as though he saw far. Auron had felt the piercing of his eyes, even before the man had approached. It was uncanny.

Auron turned his eyes to the sky, and appeared to not have noticed them as they walked past. They were a strange group: it wasn't often that a Ronso, an Al Behd, and a Guado kept company. Apparently, they had come from Guadosalam, and were making their way towards the temple. The Guado had the look in his eye that he was looking deep into the abyss, but then, all Guado had that look about them.

Auron stayed outside as the group ushered inside, and his mind was as the sky above. The peaks and the valleys of the clouds, as mountains upside down, with flat, dark pathways worn in; flakes of snow down, drifting in flurries, here and then gone, the fastest thing on the planet: it exactly matched the turbulence of Auron's mind, and the quickness of his thoughts. He was distinctly uncomfortable with the presence of a Guado within. It was strange, being so uncomfortable at such a thing, but Seymour had made him thus. The Guado could detect him for what he was…apparently, the Farplane had a certain smell, and he smelt of it. The thought sickened him, because the last thing he wanted was to be revealed, for then…who knew what Yuna or some other summoner might do. He didn't want to become like Lord Jyscal; the man was not at peace, even in the place that should have given him most peace, and was still attempting to finish something that he had not been able to finish in life. No, Auron wanted to finish all things, before moving on.

The door opened behind him, and threw its light upon the ground. A shadow moved within that light, and then the door was closed, and everything returned to as it was. It that brief space, Auron had recognized the shadow; the shadow had been long, longer than mere distortion of the light, long because the one casting the shadow had been long himself. He tightened his shoulders as he listened to the footsteps slipping across the ground, loudening as they approached. Momentarily, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the Guado stop next to him, staring out at the plains of snow, blinking. Auron nearly grunted; if this Guado mentioned anything about scents to him, he would mention the smells of a Guado. And he didn't plan for them to be pleasant smells either.

The Guado was terribly young. It made Auron feel old; why was everyone so young? The light from within flashed off the Guado's face, revealing the eyes so light brown they seemed to glow from within; his chin was strong, but he held his long-fingered hands clasped down in front of him, and was the picture of timidity. If there were two species unalike, it was the Ronso and the Guado. The Ronso were meant to be warriors: the Guado were meant to be artists, working with fine-instruments. This Guado, lifting long brown lashes from his pale cheeks, should have been a musician.

The Guado tilted his head at Auron. "Pleasant night," he said. His tone was musical and unearthly.

Auron coughed. "I was rather thinking the opposite."

The Guado smiled softly. "Ah, but perhaps you do not frequent the lake as I. For one who sees these storms often, it seems as a pleasant night. The snow does not strike strong tonight."

"Tell that to my traveling companion within."

The Guado smiled softly. "Ah, the young Al Behd girl. Yes, I noticed her, complaining because it was chilly." They fell into silence, and Auron pursed his lips. He did not want to seem eager to leave, but at the same time, every nerve told him to leave the Guado, lest the man sensed that he was Unsent. The last thing he needed was the man to run bursting into the inn, shouting, "An Unsent walks among us!" Seymour had been bad enough.

The Guado broke in, "Do you have a light?"

Auron glanced over, and the Guado pulled out a very thin, short pipe of cedar from his pocket, and hung in between his lips. Auron shifted. "No."

Guado sighed. "Oh, dear. Ah, if only to be a black mage. Then I would always have a fire to light my pipe."

"I believe that there is one within. I will get her for you?"

"Oh no, I will learn to do without. Mother always said that it was a nasty habit." The Guado slipped the pipe away without regret, smiling serenely at the storm.

Auron left the man there, backing up into the travel agency. In the lounge, a peaceful friendly scene met him. Like all Rin Travel Agencies, it was lavishly adorned, with heavy brocades of rugs and curtains, deeps woods for the furniture, a toasty fire to brighten the dark. Chairs and tables for the delight of the guests, and a kitchen always open to send scents into the air. There was Rikku, jibber-jabbering to another traveler in Al Behd. Lulu sat in front of the fire, sewing up a lose stitch on a moogle doll patiently. Rikku, as she spoke, weaved long, silver threads into the black mage's long, black braids, and they still glittered brilliantly as every flash of the fire brightened the room. Kimarhi and another, female Ronso stood at opposite sides of the room, staring at each other like two sentinels. They seemed to have some sort of competition going on, on who could twitch their ears, wriggle their noses, lash their tails, and dart their whiskers the longest. Not even Auron could pass up such a scene, and sat himself in a chair by the door, where the breeze mustered in now and again.

The other Al Behd, grinning, broke into common tongue, along with Rikku. "Now, see Sevek the Ronso here? When no other people 'round, she be speaking a lot. I must tell her, 'Sevek, stop speaking! My ears!' but she does not."

Rikku giggled. "No way. Do you believe that, Lulu?"

"It seems doubtful."

The Al Behd stared at them in disbelief. "No, no! I speak truth. But you cannot trust me, because you see her thus, and say, 'Aha! He lies! She was not speaking!' but it is only facade! Maintain the facade, so she not speaks."

"Oho! So, Kimarhi, are you maintaining a facade?" Rikku asked.

Kimarhi did not deign to reply, but a tuft of fur did rise slightly on his arm. Rikku succumbed into a fit of giggles, and the Al Behd looked on, blinking in surprise. Auron and Lulu looked at each other, because Rikku was so very young.

The Al Behd continued on. "Every race had its facade. Ronso wish to appear tough, so they be saying littlely."

"And the Al Behd wish to appear independent, and so they do not speak the common tongue well?" Lulu asked.

"Hey! I speak just fine, thank you very much!" Rikku yelped.

"But our friend does not, if he will pardon my saying so."

The Al Behd shook his hand. "No, no, no, no. I agree the facade. We not all be Cid's daughters, and must do such other things as would make we Al Behd to others." The Guado walked in, and the eyes of the Al Behd brightened. "Ah, but my friend, my summoner, Guado-friend Cellenra maintain facade too. As all Guado, he speak… gracefully — he speak elegantly! All Guado speak thus, to seem like a Guado."

Cellenra smiled, and sat in a chair facing the group, crossing his long, spider legs over each other. He watched Tidus walk into the room, and settle himself next the Rikku on the couch, before replying. "I do admit that we pride ourselves on our verbal skills."

"Ha ha! I say that if you be shutting up the mouth of a Guado, he do be exploding from all the words that get trapped inside!"

"Ennand has quite the handle on the situation, I am afraid."

"Aye! Listened much, have I, to story after story on our pilgrimage to Zanarkand. And questions he answers! Fountain of knowledge, is our summoner Cellenra. Tells us of…of fiends, so that when we be fighting them, we feel sorry for them."

Tidus looked at Cellenra in interest. "Hey! Maybe you can tell us about fiends. And the Unsent! Why do some Unsent become fiends, and others stay like they were in life?"

Auron shot a sharp glance towards Tidus, but there was no pretense within the boy's face. Expecting pretext out of him would be like expecting pretext out of a puppy; no, he was open. Tidus merely wanted to learn more about Spira, and he certainly had no suspicions that Auron was an Unsent. No, he had merely had fought the fiends the Unsent, and wished to understand.

Lulu had done Cellenra a favor and lit his pipe with her finger, and the Guado leaned back into his chair, to tell his story. Auron figured that he should stay, for if anyone didn't understand what it meant to be Unsent, it was him. "The Unsent," Cellenra began, and smoke came from his mouth, "are a curious breed. Some, as you say, become fiends, and others stay as they were during life, as would so appear as alive as you or I, and none would know the wiser. The exact reasons why one happens to some, and the other to others, are veiled to us. We see but a little of it, and my race has studied the dead for an age. Surely surely, who we would love to be able to speak to the Unsent, to ask them our questions, and learn the answers thereof, but I fear that the Unsent are a secretive bunch. The ones that aren't fiends, of course. The fiends are hardly capable of any such thing, but of course."

Auron sighed. Ennand the Al Behd was right; the Guado _do_ speak too much. Cellenra must have sensed that he was boring his listeners, because he paused to puff on his pipe.

"They're afraid of being sent?" Rikku asked.

"Yes. We believe that the reason why some do not become fiends is because they have business to finish here, first, before they go to the Farplane. Or perhaps it merely takes a time for a dead person to become fiend. Being Unsent may merely be a stage between life and fiend." Cellenra smiled, again. "Honestly, some are as alive as we, but they are dead, if that makes any sense."

"So you can't tell if they're Unsent or not?" asked Rikku.

Cellenra sighed. "Only if obvious. There are some Guado who tell that they can tell an Unsent just by looking at them, but I am afraid I am not of that sort, and thus cannot verify their claims."

"Oh, that's easy. Just get a summoner. Send 'em packing."

Auron grunted. Thanks a lot, Rikku.

Cellenra shook his head. "To do so would be a terrible breach in protocol. As Guado, we attempt not to meddle in such things; we only wish to understand. And how can we understand, if we send every Unsent we meet?"

"Weird. I wonder why they decided to stick around like that, you know," Tidus said.

Cellenra shrugged. "The question of the ages."

The conversation went round to Cellenra's pilgrimage, and of the difficult time he was having gaining the aeon of Macalania. "I don't believe she likes me one bit. I have been cloistered _six_ times, and she is determined not to become my aeon. But I am more determined, and I will break her down."

"This is the correct way of treating woman!" Ennand supplied, rather foolishly.

Auron sat in his corner, and considered the Guado before him. He could see no immediate threat in the man. Perhaps he was a liar, or perhaps he was not, but what he had said seemed to be true. Auron had been in amongst the entire population of the Guado at Guadosalam, and only one — and an obnoxious one at that — had dared to confront Auron (subtly) on being Unsent. Perhaps, he honestly had nothing more to fear. Although, he certainly would still keep to his toes.

Coming to this conclusion, Auron left the room, leaving Rikku and Tidus (and the other Al Behd, Ennand, as well) to lose their money in a card game against Cellenra, who seemed to be a proficient card-shark.

**XXXI.**

The next morning, the two groups separated, as Lady Yuna's set for Macalania Temple, and as Lord Cellenra's group stayed in bed at the inn. Kimarhi observed that perhaps it was this sleepy attitude that kept Cellenra from getting Shiva to join his collection of aeons. Auron almost remarked that then they had best hope that Shiva didn't mind young, easily distracted summoners and their entourage, but he wisely held still his tongue.

In truth, Lord's Cellenra's group did not stay in bed much longer than Lady Yuna's, but had immediately leapt out once her group had gained a safe distance away. The two guardians — which were, in no way, true guardians — and the summoner — which was, in no way, a true summoner — met outside the inn, where they could stare down the road to Macalania Temple. The Al Behd had wrapped several layers of cloth around his chin, and his words came muffled. The Ronso looked invigorated by the chill, but she hardly spoke, so it was barely noticeable. The Guado took in the hills of snow without comment, without ruffling, and smoked a pipe as though at complete peace with the world. They spoke, and their conversation went as thus:

"What do I say? An Unsent, no?" This, from the Al Behd, who watched the progress of fiends on a hand-held radar.

Cellenra inspected his fingernails. "Indeed. Unsent, for certain. Stinks of the Farplane."

Sevek perked her ears in interest, for, as a Ronso, it affronted her that a Guado should smell something that her nose could not. "What Farplane smell?"

"Of the sky at dawn. Of lightening flashes and of their children, the lightening bugs; of moonbeams, hitting lilac and thyme; and of the diamond in the rough; and of pure, clear waters, that fall down the arches of rainbows."

Her tail lashed. "Cellenra make joke of Sevek."

"Yes, yes, very funny." Ennand interposed a hand, for he had to play peacemaker between the two, because they did not understand each other. "Sir Auron, the Unsent. I was wondering the last ten years."

"It seems to me that we can make use of such interesting information." The edges at Cellenra's mouth were turned upward, into slight arches, and his eyes gleamed orange so that it appeared that a fire burned from within. "People are always desperate for news of their heroes. They are even more desperate for news of how unheroic their heroes are."

Ennand sighed, and Sevek growled. "Cell," Ennand said, "no speaking in riddle form. Get to the point."

Cellenra smiled, and placed his arm around Ennand's neck. Ennand permitted him to do so, and leaned closer, because sometimes, this Guado had interesting ideas. They looked like a father and his small son, and the son not yet grown to maturity, even though Cellenra was younger. "Let me explain to you what it is I think. And I do hope your machina finder can follow Unsent, because we are going to need it."

**AN: **_Okay, so this chapter did turn into a two chapter bit after all, just as I expected. That's the problem with this fic…it keeps GROWING, and it won't stop! Nah, it's nearly done. So the next chapter is simply titled **Return to Spira, Part Two**, and we see what our friendly neighborhood assassins are up to, and there's gonna be a return of an earlier character. _


	10. Return to Spira, Part Two

AN:_ So I decided to put up the last few chapters in one burst. If I don't do this, then this thing will never finish because I keep cramming stuff in. If I don't think about it, then I won't get crazy ideas, and I won't think about it, if I'm not writing it. Yes, Starlight-x, the assassins are always looking for a bit of trouble, aren't they? But I like them, nonetheless. Like I said last time, an old character will make an appearance in this chapter, but not the one I meant; that will be next chapter._   
Journey of the Fallen: Return to Spira, Part Two 

**XXXII.**

"How does one define a man as legend? We must agree that it is his actions that make him so; not just any actions, for then we could all be called legends. No, they must be legendary actions. But we must further ask what makes actions legendary? Most would agree that not only does the greatness of the actions make it legendary, but also the spirit in which it is carried out. So we might agree that if an action is incredibly brave, then we might label it — and the man who does the action — as legendary.

But what if a legendary action does not have the right spirit behind it? If a man risks his life, we call him brave; but if that man cannot die, then how can we continue to call him brave? It is important to pose such questions, especially in regards to our legends and heroes. I speak of one legend in particular, who is nothing more than a sham — "

"You know," Ennand broke in, "I be not claiming to be a great writer, but if I am reading the newspaper, such an article, I be putting it down now."

Cellenra lowered the scroll from which he had been reading, blinking against the strong light of the sun. It took him a moment to find Ennand, who blended right in with his surroundings. They were sitting on the white beach near Beville, in lieu of following the footsteps of Sir Auron and his comrades, who had disappeared off the face of their map. The result of this was that Cellenra would be picking sand out of his ears for the next three weeks. The sands were shining in the glare of the sky; blue Sevek stood out, like black against white, but Ennand was as pale as the dunes. But it was hard to miss those pickle-green swirly eyes, and so Cellenra found Ennand right up.

"Ah!" he replied. "Shall I write it in your style, then? 'Sir Auron is being Unsending person, yes. He being in the way that is not being living, what is saying that he being — poof! —a things that is not being air in the airy places of airness in bodies—"

Ennand whirled on Cellenra, and now, he stood out brilliantly against the sand, for his face shone red. It looked as though he had washed his face in blood, and it looked as though he would have wished that blood to be Cellenra's. "Enough!"

"Well, I _am_ the logical choice to write this thing. I have..." (here, he cleared his throat), "done freelance work for the Spiran Inquisitor before."

Ennand stood out on the top of a tall dune, legs stretched out, arms akimbo. Staring out towards the ocean, he looked like the lord of the desert. The breaking of the water against the shore was the ocean paying obeisance to its master, and the sea birds called out "Long live the King!"; and the petrols especially paid tribute, for, as their feet were not strong enough to hold them up, they bowed constantly onto their legs. "Sad, sad. A assassin being a freelancer! Sad. How does the relationship make? When you growing up, you say you want to be a reporter, and if that don't work, then an assassin?"

The scroll snapped up sharply. It was the record of Cellenra's labors to reveal Sir Auron's status in the world, and he would not have it mocked. He kept a closed expression on his face, eyes shuttered, not so much against the glare. "No matter your mockery, you know I _am_ the logical choice. We could have Sevek write it. 'Sir Auron Unsent. Sir Auron not living. Grunt. Grrr.' What a _fine_ article that would make!"

Cellenra stopped, rolling his tongue over his teeth, and not only because there was grit there. It was also a gesture of nervousness, and he looked over his shoulder, to see if Sevek should have come back yet. He didn't fancy her reaction if she should have heard him mocking her.

A smile fought to overwhelm Ennand, for he knew what Cellenra was doing. He sat on the shore, and Cellenra reopened his scroll, with a flourish — it fwipped as he adjusted it — and began his work anew. Ennand placed his chin on his knee, and listened to the scruffling of pen on paper, and of the waters — azure blue and flashing, like a million million sapphires poured out — of the ocean. There was a little girl at the place where the sea met land, approaching every wave, and running away before it touched her. She and the ocean were playing a game of keep-away.

A shadow fell on Ennand. He didn't move a muscle, in the knowing that it was only Sevek, bearing the latest news. She was the type that kept up on what was going on in Spira, which was incredibly useful if you wanted to be an assassin. "How'd the Ronso Fangs do, Sevek?" he purred.

The scratching pen stopped. Sevek did not answer. Ennand, the back of his neck apparently a dance hall for hundreds of ants (at least, it felt like a thousand tiny feet dancing the jitterbug there), looked up. What he saw in Sevek's face silenced him.

"Yeah, Sevek?" Cellenra asked.

"There is news of…your home," she told Ennand.

"My home?" he asked. "Oh! You mean Home." The smile finally receded, overtaken by a frown. "Yes?"

"Your Home," Sevek scanned the ocean, rather than look at Ennand, "destroyed. Sevek sorry."

No one moved, no one spoke. Cellenra looked surreptitiously at the Al Behd, looking at the manner in which the eyes had faded from their usual greenness. Ennand gurgled from the back of his throat. "Oh," he replied.

"And…" Sevek continued, "news of Lady Yuna's marriage to Maester Seymour."

Ennand jumped to his feet. "What? She marry him? Where? Here?"

Sevek nodded. Cellenra leapt onto his toes, alongside Ennand. "When?"

"Soon."

"Hot dog!" Ennand crowed. He grabbed Cellenra by the hands — Cellenra was shocked, offended — and together they danced a bouncing dance in a circle. Up and down Ennand went, bobbing, and Cellenra following after, just to not fall onto his face. They looked like schoolboys, discovering that the school had burned down in the night. _What odd behavior_, Cellenra thought, _for a man in grief_. Ennand let Cellenra go, laughing. "Ha ha! We be picking up the trail now! Sir Auron having no hope now! Ha ha! Sir Auron having no hope!"

And the trio set off, one of them in an unnatural good-humor, to make good the claims they were to make. All the world would know about Sir Auron; they would open their papers one morning, and would hear it one the streets, on how that the Legendary Guardian was not so much legend, after all. And not once did a pang of consciousness strike them, for they were assassins, and had put morality away long ago.

**XXXIII.**

Assassins met in inns. It seemed counterintuitive — inns are, after all, public places — but intuition is not always correct. The very public nature of an inn made it the perfect place to meet, for no one who knew better would have imagined that assassins would dare carry conversation in a place where they could be overheard. Assassins had their own code of speaking to each other, in the cases where doing such a thing might be prudent, and so they do not worry overmuch about being overheard. And so it wasn't with surprise that Kade, the assassin, walked into an inn (of not so good reputation) and found the odd assassin group of Sevek the Ronso, Ennand the Al Behd, and Cellenra the Guado. All that they needed, Kade observed, was a Hypello to join their group, and then they would be the perfect smattering of the racial diversity Spira could offer.

They would also be the perfect smattering of Spira in depression, for they sat gloomily around a table, nursing drinks and down-crested expressions. Ennand looked like a desert oasis on a cloudy day, which was impossibility, and therefore, seemed odd. He leaned over the tabletop, sighing, and swirled green eyes with dark blotches underneath. Sevek looked much the same, except her shoulders were tenser than ever, and her tail, looping around the leg of her chair, lacked its usual spunk. Cellenra looked normal, with that same faraway look in eye that all Guado had, which was supposed to make people think that they saw far into the abyss, when really they were thinking about dinner. Kade smiled, and sat next the Ennand, throwing an arm around his shoulder.

"You all look rather put out!" And Kade laughed.

Cellenra's eyes drifted past Kade, through him, at infinite mysteries beyond. Sevek, as always, did not budge, but Ennand looked at Kade, with the edge of his eye. "Hello, Kade. Be leaving your nasty comments to your own."

Kade sighed, and patted Ennand roughly. "No, you're right. I should be in a glum mood too."

"We are got drunk for our troubles," Ennand explained. He lifted a mug. "To Home, which is being all in pieces now, lying at the bottom of the desert! I did hate it, but that isn't meaning that it shouldn't be well. And to the Ronso! Proud, strong people! Now, all being…" Ennand peered at Sevek carefully, but she sat still. In fact, the mention of her doomed race perhaps stilled her more, and made her as though one of the statues her people were so proud to carve.

Cellenra had cast the all-knowing look from his face, and replaced it with something more shame-faced, for it had been the maester of his people that had done such a thing to the Ronso. Cellenra had trouble getting good sleep at night, now, knowing that Sevek was around. One never knew if she might suddenly want to pay him retribution for something that he had never done, just because he sort-of looked like that Seymour half-breed freak. The last thing he needed was an angry Ronso attempting to pop his head off his neck, that much was certain.

Kade looked back and forth between them all. "Yes, yes, very sad. You all have my deepest consolations, especially you, Sevek. I suppose you're with me, Cellenra."

"Indeed. Whenever any burden, any tragedy, is laid upon Spira, the Guado feel it most keenly. In our bones, in our hearts, in our souls."

Ennand hid a smile behind his mug, because Cellenra could act so pious when he wanted to, and could fool anyone into believing that he thought only of higher things. That was the exact reason why he belonged to their group, for who could believe that such a Guado was an assassin? "We are in the depths of despair," Ennand said. His eyes narrowed shrewdly. He had noted that Kade looked as smug as a bug. "You, Kade, are having little to hurt you? Happy, yes?"

Kade flashed his teeth. "I must say life's been treatin' me better than its been treatin' you. I'm on a job."

"Oho!"

"It must be some job, to make you so pleased over it," Cellenra said.

"Ah!" Leaning closer to Cellenra, Kade winked. "You weren't around then, but several years ago, somebody big put a mark out for a surprising man. Now, I tracked him, and I had him — and then if that guy don't slip outta my grasp, easy as pie!"

Sevek had her eyes closed, but at this point, one rolled open. Ennand stared at the ceiling, but every freckle seemed on the brink, waiting, expecting, listening intently to Kade's words. Kade continued on.

"That was ten years ago, and this guy's still walkin' 'round, even though he's had fleets of assassins going after him! I suspect your partners gave it a try, as well."

"If you talk," Ennand said, "of who I think you were talking of, then: no. Man's a hero."

Laughing, Kade rocked in his seat. "I remember you pulling that nobility crap on me once before, too. Hey, I mean it. Imagine if I got the guy now. I'd be famous! I figger I owe it to myself…heck, I still got a limp from when he threw me into that fire."

Ennand rubbed his nose with one finger. "Okay. But how do you be getting him, when he be up in the air? Airship, ah, Al Behd airship, remember! Cid flew him and his lady away."

Kade grinned maliciously. "I have my ways. I may not have a nose like Sevek, or a machina like Ennand, but I'm still a great tracker. Ugh!" Kade had taken a slurp out of Ennand's mug. "Ennand, you can't get drunk on milk! I'll be seein' you suckers around."

Kade swooped out the door, a flurry of rare good-humor as he set out to kill a man. The room he left was much more solemn than before. Sevek crossed her arms, and laid her chin on her chest. Ennand rubbed his nose, eyes upward. Cellenra played a game of Pick-up Penny Whistle with a small pyramid of peanut shells.

"He is a very determined assassin," Cellenra observed. "To go after someone after ten years, just because they had evaded his clasp before. That, or…" Cellenra lay a worldly, discerning glance on his comrades, "his target is someone quite important."

"Darn it!" Ennand slammed his fist against the tabletop. "He's gonna get _our_ man!"

"Oh dear," Cellenra replied. "All of our work, then, to reveal guardians, to waste. Kade, once driving in the knife, will realize, and then…poof! All our best laid plans…"

Ennand hid his head in his hands. "I suppose," he muttered, "it was being foolish of us anyway. To track the man, to make record of him, to make proof of him, and to _sell_ the proof to news media for a sum…very fooly for assassins to do. We are assassins, not reporters."

"Alack and alas!' Cellenra agreed.

"And I was thinking to my own, that we would not make revealing until after Sin be gone. 'Twill be unfortunate for the revealing of the man, when he be trying to kill it again."

"That is true. How many guardians could say that they helped vanquish Sin twice?"

"We do be having at least that much respect."

Sevek shifted, and lifted to her feet. She stood as a great mountain stands upon its foothills, steady, immortal. The weapons that she had hidden on every part of her body chinked a foreboding noise, and her breath came so forced through her nose, that Cellenra could have sworn that it puffed. "No!" she boomed.

Ennand's eyebrows went up. "No? We not having that much respect?"

"Kade not do this. Sir Auron fought enemy to Guado — he and his summoner — fought Seymour!"

Ennand went twirling around in his seat, and leapt onto his heels, first on one, then on the other, back and forth. "Aha! Aha aha aha! Man's a hero! How many be saying they be chopping up Sin twice? None! Sir Auron's a…super legendary guardian! And a friend to the Al Behd!"

Cellenra looked at them both as though he was beginning to regret joining their team, no matter that they were giants in the field of assassination. "So you intend to stop Kade then?"

"Yes!" Sevek boomed again.

Ennand danced around her like a man half his age, and light seemed to beam from his face, like the sun that had grown him strong and straight. The strange idea of stopping an assassination, instead of starting one, delighted him.

They were already walking out the door, determination quickening their steps. Cellena followed with a groan, and it occurred to him that Sir Auron had no idea of how grateful he should be toward assassins. Ah, to stop an assassination then, and to let a man carry his secret to the grave…but after that, all bets were off.

**XXXIV.**

Cellenra would have been surprised to learn that if they kept Sir Auron a little longer on Spira, he wouldn't be as grateful to them as Cellenra would have guessed. Auron had grown weary of life. It took all his strength to keep himself from begging Yuna to Send him. When she danced, every piece of him cried out to run to her, join the dance, join the lifting away of souls: it hurt him to resist it. When they had visited the Farplane, the song had been louder than before. He had felt the bits of him beginning to fall away, separating — he didn't know how he had resisted that too. But soon, he wouldn't have to resist it any longer. No, soon, he could rest. They had begun the final ending of Sin. They had erased the world of Yunalesca; Maester Mika — his lie had been ended as well; and soon, the greatest lie of all would be finished.

Tidus was staring at him, nose scrunched. Ever since they had gone from Zanarkand, ever since it was revealed to Tidus was Auron truly was, the blitzball player stared at Auron as though the man were an interesting specimen in a museum. And it was difficult to escape him on a small airship, so that option was out of the question. Of course, Auron hadn't hidden himself very well. They stood on the observation deck of the ship, in the room with the windows opening to the sky.

Auron thought of Rysho, and of her words ten years previous. What would she say now of machina, to know that it was through the use of machina that Spira would be made free?

Tidus was still looking at him, scratching his head this time. The boy really was more puppy than man, wasn't he?

"What is it?" Auron asked. His tone was without humor, but his eyes smiled beneath his dark glasses.

Tidus grinned at him, nervously. He swallowed. "Listen, I don't want to offend you or anything but…I was wondering. Look, you don't have to answer unless you really want but…How come you didn't turn into a fiend?" His question was spat out hastily, the words spilling over each other in their haste, as though the questioner hoped that by asking it all the quicker, it would be less likely to offend.

Auron peered at Tidus over the rim of his glasses. He wasn't offended. He had wondered that many times himself, until he had realized that the reason why he had never become a fiend was because he did not hate death. He had never desired to have his old life back. He had wanted the Farplane, and so, had never become fiend.

But he certainly wasn't going to tell Tidus that. "The answer to that," he replied, voice of humor this time, "is because, as a fiend, I could have never carried this."

He held up the long, massive blade of the Masamune. Tidus laughed.

"I should have figured something like that!" Tidus replied. He paused. "Auron, can I ask you something else?" His tone was wary. He stared out the window, at clouds rushing past, and blue water gleaming beneath, so as not to meet Auron's eye. "Er…why — I don't understand…why you came to Zanarkand. I mean, I know you made a promise, but…" He giggled. "But aren't promises void when you die? Why not find a summoner to Send you, or…thrown a party or something. I mean that's what I would have done."

Auron was silent. He hadn't thought of the reasons why for a long time. He remembered now, of his hatred. "Duty," he replied. "I had made a promise, and I had an obligation to fulfill it."

"Yeah, you're really stubborn. But why would it be a duty, even after death?"

Auron stared at the Tidus. The boy was full of questions today.

Tidus was uncomfortable. He rocked from foot to foot, kicking the floor with his toes, head hung low. It was his usual manner of embarrassment. "Uh…look, I'm sorry to be asking all these questions. You know, I guess I just want — I don't know. I guess we'll be leaving soon, you know. I don't know. I guess I'm just trying to figure this place out, is all. No one else acts surprised to be seeing dead people walking around, but I am. So I'm trying to…" He trailed off, shrugging.

Auron understood. The boy was attempting to understand something that he would be leaving behind — he would be leaving, doubtless, against his will. He wanted answers, before he lost all chances to find them. But Auron kept silent; he too was still trying to figure "this place" out. He had been searching his entire life, and much of his death, for the answer to Spira, and had not found it. How could he explain to Tidus the principles of duty, sacrifice, and love, when he couldn't understand them himself? One could hate duty, one could hate sacrifice, but both these things stemmed from love, and who could hate love?

Perhaps Kimarhi could explain it to Tidus. The Ronso understood these things better than they, that much was clear. Who else, in knowing Auron's truth, would have kept silent about it?

He was so tired. The Farplane was so loud now; he thought, in the deep silences of the night, that he could even hear Braska's voice, although he wondered if it wasn't only his imagination. Not yet, not yet. He wanted rest, to be with Braska, but not yet. They had other things to do. They were rushing towards the Moonflow, for instance, for supplies. Auron didn't know what they could get on the Moonflow that you couldn't get anywhere else (except for a shoopuff, perhaps?) but he was long past caring about things such as that. If it helped them hasten towards Sin, then he was for it.

But when would it end?

**XXXV.**

When he got the news that the airship was landing on the Moonflow, he had laughed. Finally, the great bird was coming down with its cargo, into a place that he could easily access. There, on the flow, he would hunt his target to its end. There, he would become the most famous assassin in Spira.

Every assassin had his way of getting his target. Ennand, for instance, had his machina, and Sevek. Sevek had her nose, and her weapons. Kade wasn't sure of what Cellenra had, but surely he had his gimmick just like the rest of them. And certainly, Kade had his tricks too. He hid them in his sleeves from all eyes, and slipped them out like a magician, and made the world wonder where he had learned his magic. His magic, in most cases, was his ability to make easy friends with all people. He had no enemies, and counted members of every race as his close contacts. He had many Al Behd friends, and one helped to run the Al Behd airship, and wasn't opposed to slipping Kade on what was the next destination on the itinerary. Perhaps he had lied when he had told Ennand that he tracked his targets without machina, for he used machina to keep in contact with his flying Al Behd, but as an assassin, he didn't worry overmuch about moral dilemmas. All that mattered was that he gained his target, got his man, and made his money. What else, in life, was there, after all?

And so Kade had tracked his man down to the Moonflow, had tracked his man as he separated from the group that had descended from the airship, had tracked his man as he had paced along the banks of the flow, in solitude, possibly for reprieve from the excessive noise the rest of the group made. Kade had never seen such a ridiculous group of guardians before, but that's what must happen when the summoner was barely past puberty.

He crept along in the undergrowth of the trees, stepping on silent cat-like feet. He even grinned like a cat, as he hunted, for his prey seemed determined to make the job easier on him. They ran along the Moonflow, away from all civilization, until the woods grew too thick for people. Sir Auron then stood, and stared out, his back to Kade. There were no friends to come to his aid. And most importantly, there was no fire to be flung into.

Kade readied for the attack. He fingered the hilt of a knife that he hid in his boot, and pulled it out. Its blade caught the sun, and shone brightly, but he hid it behind the thick green fronds of a fern. He slowly rose from a crouching position, and tightened his grip. Just one second, and the man would be dead. Just fifteen yards, and the man would be dead. He stepped forward.

The smell hit him first. It was offensive, vastly so, pungent, smelling of rotting matter. He halted, because something stirring came after the scent, behind him. Something…snorted.

Kade whipped around, and fell back over his own feet. A fiend advanced on him: a lupine, of some sort. Its eyes stared out blankly at him, white and terrible. It raised its head, sniffing, its nostrils punctuating the air. Saliva fell from its mouth, and onto the ground below, leaving pools behind. The long tongue lolled, in anticipation for the taste of blood.

Kade cursed. He tried to rise, but it swooped down on him, faster than any lupine had a right to move. It was made of movement. He raised his knife blindly, lashing wildly. The creature merely took the flashing as a target, and — Kade screamed. It bit into his hand! The knife fell, his fingers screamed. Of a sudden, his vision became red. All he saw was red red, on the fronds of ferns, down his arm, in his eyes, on the thing that moved. He screamed again, for it had moved down to his legs, and sank in. He felt the smoothness of something wide and wet running over them, lapping, licking at the wounds the teeth had made.

He screamed and screamed and screamed.

The pressure was off. He gagged, and gasped. Something was happening. Suddenly, it didn't hurt so much. A squeal cut the air. He struggled to rise — oh, his poor hand, and his legs! — He pushed against the ground, grunting. Red, red, red! All he saw was red! Oh Yevon, he was dying! He was dead! He was dead! Red, red, red!

There was a voice, and hands on his elbows. "Enough! It is gone!"

Nothing could stand against the force of that voice, and Kade fell silent. The red…the red was merely…somebody else. It wasn't…his blood. It was merely the coat of somebody else, somebody clasping his elbows, pulling him into a sitting position.

Kade brushed the blood out of his eyes. His hand, he discovered — the hand he had feared had been severed off — was only scratched a little, and only bleed a bit. His legs were only slightly worse off, and were, in no way, maimed beyond all recognition. And oh! He did recognize his savior! Sir Auron, the brave, had saved his would-be assassin.

Kade laughed. Auron took it as something worse, and pulled the man upwards, by his shoulders. Kade sighed, and rested his forehead against Auron's shoulder. Life was odd.

He blinked. It was also wonderfully opportunistic. Sir Auron…was distracted… and within such _close_ reach…

The knife, bloodied with his own blood, was in his hand. He gripped it, and —

"Kade!"

He dropped the knife, and let himself fall back to the ground, onto his back. Sir Auron was rising, standing above him, looking around. And here came…Ennand! Ennand, and Sevek, and Cellenra too! Here they were, whipping past trees, shouting his name.

"Kade! Kade! Oh Yevon, Kade!" Ennand screamed. He flung himself onto his knees, and pulled a cork out of a potion bottle with his teeth.

"Ennand — " He would have said more, but Ennand was pouring the potion down his throat. The choked and coughed, but still Ennand poured, so that most of it fell onto his chin.

"Kade, Kade. You are all right! Oh, Kade, to have wandering off like that way! Kade, folly!" And Ennand placed his hands on either side of Kade's face, and lowering his mouth, kissed the man's forehead as naturally and comfortably as a mother kisses her child.

Kade cringed away, gagging, rolling underneath the lips of the Al Behd assassin. He crawled to his feet, where Sevek helped him to stand, and where Cellenra looked at him critically, tapping his lips.

Ennand turned to Auron. "Oh, Sir, Sir! Thank you thank you thank you! You have saved our dear friend, our dear guardian-friend."

"Indeed, we are indebted to you," Cellenra said. He bowed at Sir Auron, who looked none too comfortable with it. "It was very foolish of my new guardian to attempt to take on a fiend by himself. I believe that I shall not heal him immediately, so that he may better learn his lesson."

"Oh, be not too hard on him, Lord!" Ennand begged. He slapped Kade's cheeks pink, playfully, who ground his teeth in rage. "He be only wanting to be like Sir Auron here! I saw you, myself, with my own eyes, Sir Auron! Sure being, you be the thing to which guardians wish to be. One swack, and the thing being dead, right in the shoulder blade! Ah, but Kade just wanting to be like you. Taking on fiends with only but a hand, and a quick leg. Aha, but Kade, poor guardian, has not a leg to stand on!" He deftly sidestepped one of Kade's legs, which came lashing out at him.

"Thanks to you, Sir Auron, I still have my guardian. Let me extend to you my deepest — " said Cellenra.

Auron held his hand up, and Cellenra drifted away. "Do not say another word about it."

"Ah, I perceive that we are making you uncomfortable. Then we shall, indeed, leave off. But I hope you realize…ah, but never mind. It is indeed a pleasure meeting you again, Sir Auron, and I extend to you my hopes for your summoner. But I will not say another word on that score." Cellenra bowed, and Auron took that as his cue to leave. Kade stood on two feet now, head like a tomato, hair sticking out in tufts of disarray, avoiding meeting the eyes of his comrades. Auron nodded his head, and backed away.

"Oh oh oh!" Ennand cried out, flapping his hands helplessly. "But first, dear friend Kade has a thing to be saying to you. There you be gone, Kade, be not shy!" He pounded Kade against his shoulder.

Eyes into narrow slits, nose crumpled in agony, Kade said, "Thank you, Sir Auron."

Auron nodded again, and disappeared through the trees. The group of assassins stayed silent until they knew Auron was gone. Kade withdrew his arm from around Sevek's shoulders, rubbing his scratched hand. Cellenra knelt, and picking up the fallen knife, gave it back to Kade.

"What are you guys doing here?" Kade snapped, shoving the knife back into his boot. He examined his leg, and found the dental record of a lupine upon it. This was terrible. Every time he took on Sir Auron, he ended up (just as Ennand had said) without a leg to stand on.

"We've being tracking you," Ennand explained. Gone was the expression of devotion and innocence in his features; here, he looked at Kade as though Kade was the fool of the world, and a disgusting fool at that. "Awfully easy to track, you be."

"Why? Why have you been tracking me?"

"Because," Cellenra answered, "it is in our best interests if you leave off killing the man right now."

"Man's a hero," Ennand said.

Kade looked back and forth between them all, blinking. He reached up to scratch his head, just before he remembered that his hand was hurt. "But…but why? Pulling that nobility crap on me! And stopping me just when I got him in my hands! "

"Kade!" Cellenra replied, shocked. "Sir Auron saved your life."

Kade snapped his eyes shot, breathing heavily through his nose. He was counting, in his head, of all the reasons why these assassins were called the greatest in Spira. He had to remind himself, because otherwise, he was tempted to loose faith in the field of assassination.

"Kade?" Ennand came whispering into his ear. "What say you of Sir Auron?"

It was sickening, the acceptance, the agreement, the giving up of the thing he had set his heart on. Gone, gone, would be his fame. His eyelids slowly lifted, and the words were reluctant, but believed: "Man's a hero."

The trio of assassins looked at each other, and something satisfied showed itself through their eyes. Ennand secretly slipped a record sphere back into his pocket, where Kade could not see it. They had finally gotten what they had been searching for, and now, all they would have to do was wait.

**AN:** _Interesting about the petrols…I didn't make it up. These birds wade in the water off of shorelines, feeding on plankton and what have you, and when they walk on land, their feet are so weak they must get around on their lower legs. Weird, huh? I also noticed the other day how weird, from a biological standpoint, it is that the Al Behd, living in the desert, should be blonde and pale skinned. Biologically, if you live in hot places you want to have dark skin and hair (think of Africans and other people who live close to the equator); if you live up north, where there isn't a lot of sun, then you want light hair and skin (think of Nordic races) to soak up what little sun there is. Anyway, that's enough learning for one day. On to the next chapter._


	11. End of the Beginning

**AN: **_Here it is, the last chapter…outside of the epilogue, which isn't really a chapter at all. I admit, beforehand, that this is kind of a weird chapter, but…oh well. I don't want to rewrite everything that we already know, in a way that we have already seen (i.e. the explanation of Sin's attack against Zanarkand didn't explain the actual actions, but more the feelings, for we all already know the actions—at least, I assume so, if you're reading this. I must thank all you who reviewed—nidrig, Starlight-x, FrequencyQueen, Luv2Game (my most faithful reviewer), RogueRobin, Spira's Bard, and everyone else. You all have no idea how encouraging reading your reviews were, and how they changed this story! So I see this story almost as much a product of your efforts as it was of mine. Thank you much. _

**Journey of the Fallen: End of the Beginning**

**XXXVI.**

Auron made his way back towards civilization, along the Moonflow, for it still made him uncomfortable to be around a Guado, whose eyes looked at everything as though he _knew_ them. He was a reluctant to leave them behind, but they had seemed to have everything in control, no matter how strange they might have appeared (_had_ the Al Behd said, "Oh Yevon"?); their foolish guardian was, after all, only scratched a little, although by the way he had reacted, you would have thought he was dying. But they had seemed as eager for him to leave as he had been eager to leave, and left it at that, because he thought he understood. They had annihilated any summoner's chance of bringing the Calm, in the old way, and certainly, they would be treated strangely by those same summoners.

He found himself a bench that faced the flow, and he sank into it, and contemplated the pyreflies. They rolled just above the pooling water, chasing their twins in the water reflection; the cattails were their obstacles, and the mist was their playground. He envied the men to whom those had belonged. The world was becoming hazier through each passing day, until he feared that he would be blinded. Exhaustion, after the long years, was finally setting in, taking its toll. It was odd. When he had heard the screaming, he had leapt to the battle, as eager and willing and strong as ever. But after the fact, he felt so _old_ and _so_ _tired_. But still he had the urging to move on, to find something that he could not give himself yet.

There was a voice, interrupting his thoughts. "Sir Auron!" The title was said mockingly, although his name was not.

It was a sweet, honeyed voice that he had not heard in an age. He turned, and there was Rysho, smiling. She looked older, but was still beautiful. Her green eyes were still as vibrant as ever, and her black hair was still like tar, reflecting the sun like raven's feathers. She had not faded with time. But there were changes: there was a baby on her hip, and her clothes were less impractical. Gone were the veils and folds, along with her girlishness. She was a woman.

"Rysho!"

"Auron! I cannot believe we finally meet again!" She stepped close, and sat next to him, settling the baby on her knee. Brief introductions went round: "Legendary Guardian, baby. Baby, Legendary Guardian!" She looked at him sideways, her old humor in the reflection of the light off her pupils.

He kept his face hidden beneath his collar. She looked pleased but…they were outcasts, having destroyed the one hope of Spira. Yunalesca was gone, and it was touted that they had had something to do with the disappearance of Maester Mika. Rysho had always been obedient to Yevon; what would she say to him now?

They sat in an uncomfortable silence, once the initial pleasantries were done, struggling to find something to speak on. Auron didn't know what to say to her.

"Why are you here?" he finally asked.

"It is my son's birthday today — he's nine — and we promised him a ride on a shoopuff. While husband argues with the driver, and while we wait for the next shoopuff departure, I decided on a walk. Then I saw an awful lot of red sitting here, and wondered if it wasn't my old friend Sir Auron, Legendary Guardian! So I had to come to find out. And then I saw the rather large weaponry, then I knew for certain." She laughed, as he attempted to adjust his cloak further over his sword. It embarrassed him that it should have been how she should have known him, but his attempts to hide it were futile. Perhaps, his weapons _were_ becoming too large. The children — Tidus, Wakka, and Rikku — teased him on it unmercifully. "Auron, I am very pleased to see you. As an old friend. We used to be good, old friends."

"I remember. It is good to see you as well."

"Ah, but I have the upper hand on you. I am even more pleased, because my reasons for happiness are better than yours! They are not so shallow. I have been wishing to speak to you."

Auron sat still, but what he really felt like slipping down in his seat like a naughty boy. Rysho would speak her mind — she had never been afraid to do so — and often, her mind wasn't full of pleasantries for him.

She surprised him, however. "First," she continued, softly, "I must apologize to you for what happened so long ago. This should have come sooner, but I was so stupid and proud back then. And father was even more so, and if it makes me a terrible daughter to say so then so be it. It never should have happened in the first place. Stupid pride!" An expression of self-loathing crossed her face. "I am very sorry, Auron. It had been wrong."

He was glad that his collar was so high, because he was feeling embarrassment, something he was not accustomed to feeling. "Rysho…in all fairness, I was disobedient. The last man to have done the same — "

"Had the same punishment done to him! Priests and their families deserve a great deal of respect…but what happened was still wrong. But this is how you have always been, Auron: always giving back more grace than what you have received." She sighed, shutting her eyes. "I think father regretted it too. He always spoke glowingly of you, especially before he died. 'Our old friend, the Legendary Guardian!' he would say. It was a matter of pride with him."

"It is forgotten, Rysho."

She opened her eyes to look at him. "Thank you. Now, I don't mean to be a chatter head, but I have so much to say to you! It's your fault, really, for disappearing for so long. Now then…" She spoke of her life then, of her husband and her children. Auron wondered if she meant to pretend to have forgotten about the things against Yevon he had done. "As you know, my boy is nine, not born so long after you left. When I became a mother, a change came to me, Auron. I began thinking about the Calm and Sin."

He pursed his lips. Here it came: the rebuttal.

The wind was blowing her hair across her face, catching the eye of the baby, who held her hands out to catch the errant strands. Rysho laughed, caught the hand of her baby, and kissed it. "I was so grateful for the Calm — more grateful than ever. Me and my family would live in peace, without fear of sudden destruction, unlike so many other families throughout the ages. Then, it occurred to me that the Calm would end. My children would know Sin, would feel his terror and rage, and would fear. Remember the hope that we spoke of so long ago? It suddenly was so very shallow to me. I realized that that must have been what you had felt."

He shook his head mutely. He still didn't know where she was going.

She smiled at him, and laughed. "How stern you look! But it gets better. I heard about how you had come back and had joined with Braska's daughter, to be her guardian on her journey. You know how to make an entrance, Auron; you realize that, of course. You were all our hope again. Braska's daughter, following in his footsteps! Surely she would vanquish the foe! And Sir Auron, who had already walked the road to Zanarkand, who went there, and came back again! Surely, you would show her the way!"

They paused, briefly, to listen to the high, whirring of a hummingbird in flight, searching for nectar to feast upon. "And then," she continued, gently, "you all became rebels."

Auron wanted to rise and leave. He didn't want to hear this; his knees nearly bolted him to his feet, against his will. He regretted none of their actions, but that was exactly the reason why he didn't want to hear Rysho curse their actions…because, they had been right.

"I'm grateful," she whispered.

He was slow to comprehend. Grateful? His knees stopped wiggling.

She tilted her face up towards the clouds, and the wind caught her lids, and lifted them. Her eyes shone in the light of the sun. "I am grateful, because I have a greater, deeper hope now, Auron. All of Spira is behind you, even if she doesn't realize it yet. Ask anything of Spira, and she will answer you, because she has been made weary. It is time we were free. It is time for Sin to become only a distant memory, a remnant of the past, and gone from our future. We atoned for our sins a long time ago."

"And Yevon?"

"I'm tired of being lied to, Auron. They mixed politics with religion, and that is wrong. Yevon is a villain, a false idol, not a diety. It is time that we were free of him, as well." She stood and held her hand out to him. He took it, and held it. "It is time that the foolish hope was laid to rest. To hope that maybe _this time_…no more. You change Spira, Auron, you and your summoner. You once set out to destroy Sin and…you will finish it. You are not the sort to leave jobs unfinished."

He smirked. "No, I guess I'm not."

"Stubborn as a mule." On the wind, the bellow of a shoopuff rang, amidst the childish cry of "Mother, mother!" Her head rose, and eyes lit, to hear them. "Ah! There, I must leave. Good-bye, Auron. I shake the hand of the legend. I will not show you the prayer."

"In some places," he replied, "it is a sign of victory."

Rysho took the hand of her baby, and made it wave at him. She stepped back, grinning. Before she whirled around though, to leave, she replied, "Then perhaps, it would be appropriate. But I cannot do it with a baby in my arms! Good-bye, Auron, good-bye! I run to meet my family!"

He watched her, indeed, run to meet her family. She looked as young as she ever had, finding her youth again, in her joy. Her heels made dust clouds on the ground, and her skirt flew out from her. And there was her husband, arms out, and her son, leaping in pleasure, for today, he was nine.

Very soon, they would begin the battle with Sin, and Yevon. Auron would never see Rysho again. His parting gift to her would be her freedom.

**XXXVII.**

Rysho stood out on the balcony of her home, in one of the towers of Beville, watching the city. Above and away, the brave knights and ladies battled Sin. She could feel it all around her, the approaching freedom. When Sin had come down atop the highest tower of Beville, there had been great fear amongst the people. But Rysho had not been among them. No, she could not fear, because, finally, the people of Spira were taking back what once was theirs. As she had told Auron, Spira had proven that it could be trusted, and had risen to the call that was made upon it, without hesitation or weakening. Rysho had sang the song, and had listened to it echo around her. Today, was the day of their liberty

It was with joy that Jecht, the man, met Lady Yuna and her guardians. Oh! the jubilation that came with knowing that very soon, all things would be finished. The undoing of Sin would be the liberty of Jecht, and of Spira. But Sin, even as he lay defeated, even as the entity that was also him — Jecht — leapt with glee within him, did not believe that he was defeated. Broken, but not gone. He had been as such a hundred times before, and even if he had never before been so wounded by mere man, he did not fear. The waters and the land parted before him, and nothing was a barrier to his will. He had never felt fear in a thousand years, for it was _his_ calling to bring fear and destruction. He destroyed the people and the hopes (but not the dreams) of Spira, as mindlessly as a worm moves through the earth. And as a worm does not fear the earth it consumes, Sin did not fear the people he destroyed, for he was as eternal as Yevon.

Far below the battle for Spira, several people of a disreputable reputation sat in an inn of disreputable reputation. One sat upon a bench, favoring a particular leg, because it was still tender. A fiend had sharpened its teeth into it, and learned too late that that had been a mistake.

One of the other men looked at the slightly damaged one, with a tense smile. "You being happy you did not kill him, now?"

Kade grunted.

And high up in the air, Yu Yevon came face to face with the protectors of Spira. And then, Sin knew fear.

**XXXVIII.**

"Yevon…" Tidus murmured, "is a TICK?"

A tick, a tick, a tick with a seal on it, like some sort of tattoo, was Yu Yevon. A tick, a tick, a tick with eight legs, and a fat belly, gorged on the blood of the masses that Sin had killed, was Yu Yevon. A tick, a tick, a tick, purple and bloated, and two pillars around it, to give it strength, was Yu Yevon. This had been the thing that had feasted upon Spira for a thousand years? This was the thing that had earned the admiration of a trillion people? This is what Yu Yevon had hidden himself as?

Rikku took up the theme, and was repeating, over and over again, "A tick a tick a tick a tick." She sounded like a clock. Perhaps, she was like a clock. She mixed and poured and created special elixirs and potions and liquids of destruction, as efficiently as one of her machina; she had had an entire lifetime to take on their attributes. The abhorrent people, the machina people, would destroy Sin, and kill Yevon.

Had that been why Yevon hated them so?

Wakka was perhaps most offended. His hair stood up straight, like an eternal exclamation point. He had, of them all, been the most devoted to the teachings of Yevon, the deceiver. And the deceiver was an insect. But that only fueled his anger more so, because he had been duped.

Yevon's deception would backfire, wouldn't it?

Yuna and Tidus, both with the same look of determination on their faces. They both had lost their fathers, needlessly, at the hands (feelers?) of Yevon. The sacrifice of their fathers predestined the fate Yevon would suffer at their hands. And Lulu cast her black magics, and every spell was punctuated with her rage and her love. She had lost the man that she had prized, and the summoner she had loved, because Yevon had lied to them all.

The tricks of Yevon the trickster had come back on him, hadn't they?

Kimarhi was an impenetrable force. He was still as stone-faced as ever, but his lance cut deeper, because it was his obligation to make it so. Rejected by his people, he would ensure that his people would have a hand in the undoing of Yevon. It was his duty.

Yevon's destruction would come back on him, a hundred fold, wouldn't it?

Auron, in his loss, in his desperation to end it, gripped his sword in gratitude. How foolish he had been to doubt the wisdom of very large armaments. He raised it, hefting it onto his shoulder. Yevon had no lips, but he would kiss the steel of Auron's blade: that was Auron's promise.

Yevon had gone back on his words, and now, it was the time of the breaking of the promises that were made to him, wasn't it?

And so, it was through these people that Yevon's final destruction came: a girl whom the world claimed had no right to be in it; a captain of men that could not gain fame, but only infamy; a girl who had lost her father. A boy of dreams, a woman who had lost love, a son rejected by his people. A man who had lost his hold on his old life, and could not gain grasp of the new.

In that day, Yevon learned the bitterness of justice, and Spira learned of its sweetness. In that day, Spira was wiped clean of Yevon, and of all traces of him. In that day, Spira was made free.

**XXXIX.**

When Yevon was finally destroyed, when he became particles to be carried with the wind, the world closed in on Auron. There was nothing outside of the final defeat of the liar. Just one thought took possession of him, and did not let go: _It is done, it is done._

He looked with new eyes at the things around him. He looked with the eyes of a man who realizes that this would be the last time he would see such things, for he readied to leave, and never return. But he did not look with longing — no, he was merely viewing an oddity that he had no part of (for the world no longer was his), but found interesting all the same.

Rikku sat on the ground, one leg folded underneath her, the other splayed out. Her hands — and cheeks, where her hands had touched — were stained with the ingredients of Yevon's destruction. "I am _tuckered_!" she said.

The made the rest of her companions to stir. It was the first thing anyone had said since the end of the battle. Who could, after all, react to such a thing?

Wakka began laughing. Lulu smiled gently at him, and brushed the dust from her skirt. Nothing could disturb Lulu; she was the epitome of calm reflection, especially when her eyes looked up, and she wore a small smile (the one with the very small dimple), as she was doing so now. Wakka still laughed.

Kimarhi crossed his arms, and flickered his ears. "This is good."

Wakka laughed even harder.

Yuna rose, her staff with her.

Wakka's laughing came to an abrupt halt. "It is time, isn't it?" Lulu said.

And Yuna began her dance. Her skirt went round her, out and out the faster she twirled. Her staff arched the air, showing Yevon the way to the Farplane, the way that he had lost. Everyone fell silent to watch her. This time, however, the dance was no longer sad. The steps were joyous, and the Hymn was no longer a lament, but an exultation.

In the wake of Yevon's end, Auron finally felt the release of a weight pressing upon him, and the lifting of his soul. It was relief, final relief, and he gave himself fully to it. Let him fall to pieces, he did not care.

Yuna saw him, and stopped. Dancing Yuna — don't stop, Yuna, don't stop. It was the only time she had ever hesitated to dance, and he appreciated the gesture — but don't stop, Yuna. It was time that he was home.

And he would miss these people. Kimarhi, he was most grateful too, who had kept silent, and in so doing, enabled Auron to finished what he had started. Lulu and Rikku and Wakka: he loved them. Yuna, his summoner. Tidus, his charge. Ah yes, how dearly he would miss these people. He would have never imagined that he would come to have so much affection for them.

And yet, he was not hesitant to leave. He welcomed his lifting away — he took joy, in feeling it. He had worked so long for this. This had been his dream, his aching, his desire, his need for ten years. He needed to be where he belonged, with the people he belonged.

He flew away, and all faded white. No longer, could he hear the voice of Spira, the voice of Yuna, Wakka, Kimarhi…Rikku, Tidus, Lulu — they all faded away. They all faded before the rising of the song of the Farplane, gaining, welcoming him.

Jecht was there, laughing. And here was Braska's voice (whom he had sworn he could hear, back on Spira, before the end), telling him, "Well done, well done."

And as Auron lifted away, to meet Jecht and Braska, it occurred to him that he had no reason to hate sacrifice, love, and duty. How foolish it had been to think ill of the three virtues! Oh, for so long, the close companions of the three — rage, havoc, death — had blinded his eyes. These three had made him believe that the three virtues (in their due season) had led him and them to their destruction, and had fooled them as deviously as had Yu Yevon. But they hadn't. He could see with clarity now, and now, he saw the beauty of love, sacrifice, and duty. They had given him the strength, the will, the ability, to continue his journey.

And now, his journey was complete. Now, he could rest.

The End 

**AN: **_Awww, gives me gooshi-whooshie feelings. Remember the saying that "You can't take it with you"? Apparently, it doesn't apply on Spira, because Auron sure took that sword with him, didn't he? Man's devoted to his weaponry. Can't say I blame him._


	12. Epilogue

**AN:** _Jolee, in this part, is a revived character that I destroyed from an earlier chapter (the one that I wrote six times, and am still not happy with). In that chapter, he was a character in a hospital bed. Here, he is something else. But both have the same characteristic: they both regret, as masculine men, having such a girl's name._

**Epilogue**

The offices of the _Spiran Inquisitor_ were located in the capital of entertainment, Luca, and took up a full two-story building. They weren't quite in the heart of the city, but the fact did not discompose them. No, they imagined themselves as being more in the heart of Spira, wherein they sent out their reporters to all corners, much in the way that Beville spat out priests, but so much better. They had ten full time reporters, and several freelancers that wrote up bits of news that the reporters were too busy to bother with. They printed five thousand copies a day, and it was a good thing that they didn't know that Zanarkand used to print fifty thousand a day. Ah, the _Spiran Inquisitor_, so certain of its greatness. They buzzed and bubbled in their belief that all Spira turned to them for news.

A gentleman that worked there, with the regrettable name of Jolee, was meeting with one of their sometime freelancers. This particular freelancer hadn't written anything for them in over a year, which made them look at him without a kind eye. But he had promised them news that they would spill blood for, and they had asked him in. He was known as the sort to get good news, and so they would give him another chance.

He came in with an Al Behd and a Ronso, a copy of his article, and a sphere recording. He pranced across the room—filled of desks of men working diligently for the news of Spira—like a peacock in its strut: one leg foreward, one leg back, reverse, little bobbing of the head as though he was greeting his servants. He sat down in the chair, across Jolee's table, absolutely pink in satisfaction. He identified those with him as "associates".

"So, Cellenra, you promised good news — " began Jolee.

"Ah, yes. The most interesting news you have ever heard. It involves a legend."

Jolee's eyebrows met his hairline. The Al Behd was blinking at him, rolling in silent mirth; the Ronso…well, there was no changing with Ronso, but Cellenra looked like his chair was about to kick him out, so excited he was. This was most interesting, most prospective, for Guado seldom became excited.

"Indeed? A legend."

"Yes, yes." Cellenra leaned forward, leaning an elbow against the desktop. He pushed a sphere towards Jolee, with one finger, eyes twinkling, smirking. "It involves a guardian of a certain summoner. One of Lady Yuna's guardians, to be precise."

"In-deed."

"Ah, yes. He also was a guardian of her father's."

Jolee shook his head in understanding. "Yes, yes. Sir Auron."

"Yes, Sir Auron. He is called Legendary Guardian, is he not?"

Jolee rubbed his ear in between two fingers. "He is called that, yes."

Cellenra rubbed a hand against his brow, and frowned. "And the poor man did not survive the final defeat of Sin, isn't that right?"

"Very sad." Jolee cleared his throat, and wished Cellenra would hurry and get to the point. One thing about Guado was that they liked to hear themselves talk.

"Yes, it is very sad when a man dies. Especially a great man." Cellenra bent low over the table. The Al Behd did the same, behind him. "But what if," Cellenra dropped his voice to a stage-whisper, "Sir Auron didn't die during the final defeat over Sin. What if…he died during Lord Braska's defeat?"

The group fell silent a moment. Around, the sounds of a newspaper in full business teased their ears, and yet, still seemed somehow hushed, as though they too awaited Jolee's reaction to the news. Jolee rubbed a hand against his chin. Cellenra held his breath. Ennand gripped the back of Cellenra's shirt — this was so exciting! Sevek… Sevek blinked.

Jolee opened his mouth, and placing his fingertips together carefully, replied, "You mean, then, that Sir Auron was an Unsent?"

"Yes." Cellenra's whisper could barely contain itself. It threatened to rise into a great shout, in glee. His eyelashes quivered against his trembling, and his hand clutched the papers of his article, a death-grip. "And I have the proof."

Jolee bent over the table, and put his face close to Cellenra's. "Cellenra, this is what you bring me?"

"Yes!"

"This is your great news?"

"Yes!"

"Cellenra, we already know that Sir Auron was an Unsent."

Ennand literally deflated. Cellenra shook his head, for his ears were playing tricks on him. Sevek…Sevek blinked. "What?" Cellenra asked.

Jolee placed a newspaper — that morning's — in front of Cellenra. Cellenra looked down at its flowing script. Its typeface was tiny, and those with eye troubles would be unable to read it, but it was impossible to miss the big black mark of the headline. It was meant to catch your eye, smack you in the face, knock your socks off, have you taken aback, shock and surprise you, all in one go. This is what it read: _Sir Auron Spent Last Ten Years As Unsent_.

"You see," Jolee explained, as Cellenra and Ennand read the headline, over and over, "yesterday, while the High Summoner was here in Luca, a reporter of ours gave her an interview. During that interview, it was revealed…well, you see what was revealed."

Cellenra looked at Jolee with disgust, mouth twisted in revulsion. Beside him, Ennand laid his face on the table. Sevek…Sevek blinked. "What?" Cellenra asked. He still spoke in a whisper, as if the shock had permanently damaged his vocal cords (Jolee realized that it was impossible for this to happen to a Guado). "You mean she _told_. She _knew_, and told!"

"Well, yes, of course."

"But…but it makes him a sham!"

"Oh, Cellenra!" Jolee looked reproachful. "It doesn't make him a sham. It makes him a greater man than ever! He could have gone to the Farplane at any time, but he chose to instead stay here, to continue to fight Sin. It doesn't make him a sham; it makes him great! The man's a hero!"

Ennand slowly lifted his face. Red marks were on his face, where he had laid it, and indented it with the instruments of a newspaperman's desk; they blazed against his blonde hair and pale skin. "What?"

"I said that the man's a hero."

Ennand laid his head back on the table, but it wasn't so downcast, this time. Instead, it was contemplative. Beside him, Cellenra slide slowly down in his chair. Oh, he had come in like a peacock, like a king; he would go out like a serf, or a scraggly chicken with its feathers plucked out.

"Yes." This came from Ennand. "Man's a hero. Cellenra?"

"Man's a hero."

"Sevek?"

"Man's a hero."

There was no getting around it: the man was a hero. It was enough to make Cellenra sick. He rose, taking up his article — oh, the blood that had poured like sweat, working over it! — and the sphere of Sir Auron slaying a fiend, but fading for just one instant, when the fiend had turned against him before dying. And so Cellenra left, his associates close in following, vowing to never again write a piece for the _Spiran Inquisitor _again. Ha, what was wrong with him! He was no longer a freelancer; he was an assassin! His business would be to take care of the living, not the dead, for that was what an assassin did. Let the Unsent remain Unsent.

"Still, it just goes to show you," he mourned. "It just goes to show you how unappreciative men are. You try to hold off on revealing them, and _this_ is what they do to you."

Ennand clapped him on the back. "Poor Cellenra."

"Man may have been a hero, but he's a real creep!"

And thus was Cellenra reduced to a mere assassin. But from that day forward, those three assassins took comfort in the thought that if they had never stopped Kade from attacking Sir Auron, then they would probably be dodging Sin by now. And that, they decided, made them as much heroes as Sir Auron was a hero. And that, they decided, was good enough for them, for how many could be counted in with the likes of Sir Auron, the Legendary Guardian? "No many," Ennand claimed, "no many."

_The End_

**Journey of the Fallen**

_Note: I decided to write this story in response to all those other stories out there, that depict Auron as being depressed because he was Unsent. Not depressed because he was Unsent, necessarily, but depressed because he was dead. I always thought that if the man was dead, he probably wouldn't have minded that so much. What he would have minded was not being in the Farplane. I guess I always thought of it like winning the lottery, where if you were expected to live your normal, poor life for ten years, before getting the lottery dough…well, the normal life might not seem so normal, anymore. And so I wrote this with this thought in mind, and this is way this is the way it is. Anyway, I hoped you all enjoyed this, as much as I enjoyed writing it. See you all around. _


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